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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
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Lady-B 


A  D  Y  -  _D  I  R  D. 


§^  Ciilt. 


BY 


LADY  GEORGIANA   FULLERTON, 

Author  of  "Grautley  Mauor,"  "Ellen  Middleton,"  ic. 


"  With  caution  judge  of  possibility ; 
Tbicga  thought  uolikcly,  e'ea  impossible, 
Experieuce  often  shows  us  to  be  true." 


BALTIMORE: 
PUBLISHED  BY  JOHN  MURPHY  &  CO. 

No.   1S2    BALTIJIORE     STREET. 
1868. 


'^xthtt 


Lady-Bird  is  almost  urdrersally  conceded  to  he  the  best,  as  it 
certainly  has  been  the  most  successful,  of  Lady  Georgiana  Fuller- 
ton's  novels.  It  does  not,  pq7haps,  display  as  much  power  as 
Ellen  Middleton;  hut  it  is  not  in  any  way  inferior  to  Grantley 
Manor  in  this  point,  and  far  surpasses  that  work  in  truthful  deli- 
neation of  character,  and  especially  of  the  supernatural  influence 
of  religion  m  moulding  it.  Every  prominent  person  in  the  work 
s/iows  its  action,  and  we  nowhere  find  in  this  work,  as  in  too  many 
works  of  fiction,  any  pretended  substitute  for  faith  and  grace: 
for  in  much  of  our  lighter  literature  the  natural  is  elevated  above 
the  supernatural,  and  a  kind  of  approbation  is  given  to  those  who 
seek  a  pretext  for  endorsing  the  indifference  of  our  day, — a  day 
whose  great  disease  is  its  belief  in  the  unnecessariness  of  a  church 
as  the  channel  of  essential  grace  to  man. 

Lady-Bird  is  the  heroine  of  the  tale, — a  girl  of  an  unloving, 
aristocratic  father,  who  married  for  pride  when  disappointed  in 
love,  and  who  for  his  wife  and  daughter  has  naught  but  reserve, 
coldness,  and  arbitrary  manifestation  of  power,  tempered  towards 
his  Spanish  wife  only  by  her  state  of  sickness, — for  her  life  was  one 
of  suffering.  Gertrude  Lifford,  our  Lady-Bird,  had  grown  up  in 
seclusion,  her  active  inquiring  mind  developed  by  her  own  undi- 
rected reading,  with  no  companions  except  Maurice  Redmond  and 

3 


4  PREFACE. 

Mary  Grey,  the  child  and  foster-cJiild  of  a  widow  near  TJfford 
Grange,  who  were  allowed  to  become  her  playmates  in  childhood. 
Accident  brings  her  into  society,  and  Mr.  d'Arberg  wins  her  affec- 
tion ;  btit  they  are  not  destined  to  marry.  In  this  affection, — in  its 
thwarting  by  her  father, — in  the  train  of  circumstances  that  lead  to 
her  union  with  Maurice  Redmond, — lies  the  interest  of  the  volume; 
and  the  self-reliance  of  Gertrude,  its  fatal  effects  to  her  peace,  her 
hour  of  trial  with  no  consoler — no  adviser  at  hand,  are  depicted 
with  a  sweetness  of  style,  an  elevation  of  sentiment,  a  beauty  of 
expression,  which  few  of  our  writers  have  attained. 

In  all  will  be  found  the  most  perfect  naturalness :  nothing  is 
exaggerated,  nothing  improbable;  events  as  they  occur  show  their 
effects  on  the  various  personages  of  the  tale.,  making  the  lesson  con- 
veyed- to  the  mind  so  marked  that  the  most  careless  reader  cannot 
but  be  impressed  with  it.  Thefre  is  a  total  absence  of  all  that  can 
feed  in  the  young  those  silly  romantic  feelings  which  have  been  the 
bane  of  so  many,  and  tended  in  the  tale  to  unfit  the  heroine  her'self 
for  the  stern  reaHMes  of  life. 

We   thus   honestly  commend   to  the  reader  a  tale,  which  little 
needed  any  preface  to  those  who  know  the  earnest  piety,  the  wide 
benevolence,  and  singidar  talent  of  the  noble  authoress. 
Baltimore,  April,  1857. 


JTabii-^iri 


CHAPTER  I. 


*  Glooin  is  upon  thy  silent  h«arlli 
O  silent  limise!  .... 
Sorrow  is  in  tlie  breezy  sound 
l)f  tliy  tall  beeches  wl]is[)'riii','  round  ; 
The  siiadow  of  long  niournt'ijl  liours 
Hangs  dim  u|i(>n  tliy  early  flowers. 
Even  in  tliy  sunshine  seems  to  brood 
Something' more  deep  than  Solitude." 


Mrs.  IlEMAMSk 


"Come  to  the  woods  in  whose  mossy  dells 
A  light  all  made  for  the  poet  dwells; 
There  is  llglit,  there  is  youth,  there  is  tameless  mirth 
"Where  the'streams  aniTthe  lilies  they  wear  have  birth. 
Joyous  and  free  shall  your  wanderings  be 
As  the  flight  of  birds  o'er  the  glittering  sea. 
Come  forth,  < )  ye  children  of  gladness,  come, 
Where  the  vinlets  lie  may  be  now  your  home — 
Away  from  the  chamber  ami  the  sullen  hearth 
The  young  winds  are  dancing  in  breezy  mirth, 
Their  light  stems  thrill  to  the  wild  wood  strains. 
*    '       *  *  *  *  * 

Bring  the  lyre  and  the  wreath  and  the  joyous  lay, 
Come  forth  to  the  sunshine."  .... 

Ibid. 

The  old  manorial  residence  of  Lifford  Grange  was  one  ot 
those  habitations  which  have  remained  in  the  same  family  for 
many  centuries,  which  have  been  two  or  three  times  rebuilt  in 
the  course  of  a  thousand  years,  and  each  time  have  retained 
some  portion  of  the  old  mansion  ;  the  new  one,  as  it  was  called, 
being — at  the  period  of  which  we  speak — about  as  deserving 
of  that  appellation  as  the  Pont-Neuf  at  Paris,  which  happens 
to  be  the  oldest  of  all  the  bridges  that  span  the  Seine.  An 
avenue  of  yews  led  up  to  the  house ;  on  each  side  of  these 
sepulchral-looking  trees  was  a  row  of  fine  beeches,  whose  light 
foliage  contrasted  with  the  hue  and  mitigated  the  gloom  of 
the  more  solemn  evergreens.  "  La  parure  de  I'hiver  et  le  deuil 
de  I'ete." 


4  LADY-BIRD. 

The  immediate  approach  to  the  house  was  through  a  square 
court  equally  divided  by  the  carriage-road,  on  each  side  of 
which  were  two  patches  of  grass,  one  of  them  adorned  by  a 
sun-dial  on  which  the  sun  never  shone,  and  the  other  by  the 
dry  basin  of  a  fountain  into  which  four  hideous  Tritons  peep- 
ed, as  if  in  the  vain  hope  of  discovering  water  in  its  recesses. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  house  there  were  broad  gravel  walks, 
and  an  extensive  garden — if  anything  so  flowerless  could  de- 
serve the  name.  A  river  that  looked  like  a  canal  divided  it 
from  the  flat  extent  beyond.  Deeply  and  sullenly  flowed  this 
stream,  which  had  not  the  beauty  of  clearness  although  the 
rank  weeds  in  its  bed  were  easily  discerned.  There  was 
neither  life  nor  spirit  in  its  rapidity  :  sullenly  and  silently  it 
hurried  along,  as  if  in  haste  to  exchange  the  open  space  it  had 
to  traverse  for  the  shade  of  a  dark  thicket  which  lay  between 
the  park  and  the  river  into  which  it  was  about  to  flow. 

The  most  ardent  admirer  of  old-fashioned  places  must  have 
owned  that  there  was  something  melancholy  in  the  aspect  of 
Lifibrd  Grange,  with  its  massive  walls,  its  heavy  portals,  its 
projecting  windows,  all  unadorned  by  the  smallest  sprig  of 
jessamine,  the  least  invasion  of  ivy,  the  slightest  familiar  touch 
of  daring  tendril  or  aspiring  creeper.  The  interior  uf  the 
house  corresponded  with  the  exterior.  It  had  large  drawing- 
rooms,  and  furniture  which  it  would  have  required  a  giant's 
strength  to  move,  light-excluding  windows  and  unapproachable 
fire-places.  Heavjr  red  woollen  curtains  descended  to  the 
floor  in  cumbrous  folds.  A  regiment  abreast  might  have 
marched  up  the  stair-case,  and  moderate-sized  houses  have 
been  built  within  the  bed-rooms.  There  was  a  certain  kind  of 
grandeur  about  the  old  Grange,  and  none  of  the  usual  appen- 
dages of  such  a  place  wjre  absolutely  wanting,  but  there  was 
a  total  absence  of  comfcrt  in  its  arrangements,  and  of  charm 
in  its  aspect  both  within  and  without. 

The  character  of  the  owner  seemed  stamped  upon  its  walls, 
and  inscribed  on  its  portal.  Mr.  Lifford's  family  was  as  an- 
cient as  his  house,  and  his  pride  as  lofty  as  his  rooms.  IIo 
was  the  last  descendant  of  a  race  which  had  clung  to  the 
Catholic  church,  through  the  ages  of  persecution,  with  a 
fidelity  which  had  given  him  an  hereditary  attachment  to  a 
religion,  the  precepts  of  which  he  did  not  observe,  the  spirit 
of  which  he  certainly  did  not  exhibit.  He  had  not  enemies, 
for  he  kept  too  much  aloof  from  others  to  interfere  with  them, 
or  to  be  interfered  with  himself.     There  was  a  kind  of  dignity 


LADy-BIRD.  5 

and  smooth  coldness  about  liim  which  repelled  without  rude- 
ness, and  chilled  without  offending.  It  would  have  been 
equally  difficult  to  aifront  or  to  flatter  him  ;  his  heart  (if  he 
had  one)  was  a  scaled  book  which  his  few  associates  had  never 
read  ;  none  knew  if  its  pages  were  inscribed  with  fair  or  foul 
characters,  or  were  as  blank  as  the  handsome  immoveable  face 
that  formed,  as  it  were,  its  title  page. 

During  a  journey  that  he  nnide  into  Spain  soon  after  com- 
ing of  age,  he  had  married  a  Spanish  girl  of  a  family  as  ancient 
as  liis  own.  She  was  an  orphan,  and  her  guardians  readily  be- 
stewed  her  hand  on  the  young  Englishman  ;  whoso  (^uarterings, 
wealth,  and  religious  profession  answered  the  conditions  they 
deemed  indispensable  to  a  union  with  a  daughter  of  their  house. 
Angustia  was  her  name;  on  the  day  of  her  marriage  it  sounded 
in  strange  contrast  with  the  beauty  of  her  face  and  the  bril- 
liancy of  her  prospects ; — a  very  few  years  later,  when  a  pale, 
suffering,  and  hopelessly  infirm  woman  took  possession  of  an 
apartment  on  the  ground-floor  at  Liftbrd  Grange,  from  which 
she  never  emerged  but  to  take  a  few  turns  in  a  garden-chair 
on  the  sunny  side  of  the  house,  it  seemed  more  in  accordance 
with  her  destiny. 

The  first  years  of  her  marriage  had  been  spent  in  Spain, 
and  during  that  time  she  had  two  children,  a  girl  called  Ger- 
trude and  a  boy  two  years  younger.  Soon  after  the  birth  of 
this  last  child,  she  and  her  liusband  came  to  England  ;  and  at 
about  the  same  period  a  paralytic  stroke  deprived  her  of  the 
use  of  her  limbs,  while  a  complication  of  diseases  reduced  her 
to  a  state  of  almost  continual  suff"ering,  and  withdrew  her  en- 
tirely from  society.  Her  husband  shut  himself  up  more  and 
more  in  a  proud  retirement  from  the  world,  unsolaced,  as  it 
appeared,  in  that  haughty  seclusion  by  any  engrossing  pursuit 
or  the  performance  of  any  active  duties.  The  only  inmate  of 
his  house  was  his  uncle,  who  had  been  educated  in  Spain,  had 
there  received  holy  orders,  and  since  his  nephew's  return  to 
England  had  inhabited  the  Grange  and  fulfilled  there  the 
oflace  of  domestic  chaplain,  occasionally  assisting  the  priest 
of  the  neigbouring  village  of  Stonehouseleigh.  His  nature 
might  have  originally  been  cast  in  the  same  mould  as  his 
nephew's ;  his  manner  indeed  was  rougher  and  more  abrupt — • 
but  in  his  case  the  rock  had  been  smitten,  the  rugged  bark 
had  been  softened,  the  ice  had  been  melted  by  that  light 
which  never  shines  in  vain  on  the  human  heart,  by  that  fire 
against  which  no  adamant  is  proof,  and  which  no  natural  biaa 


6  LADY-BIRD. 

can  resist.  That  he  had  a  heart  no  one  could  have  doubted 
who  had  witnessed  his  solicitude,  his  almost  paternal  kindness 
for  the  pale  invalid,  who  seldom  conversed  with  any  one  but 
him.  and  who  had  no  other  comforter  or  friend. 

Her  apartment  was  the- least  gloomy  in  the  house,  but  at 
the  same  time  its  aspect  was  of  the  gravest  character.  A  few 
valuable  Spanish  pictures  hung  on  its  walls,  a  large  crucifix  in 
carved  ivory  stood  opposite  to  her  couch,  and  some  books  of 
devotion,  with  heavy  clasps  and  rich  bindings,  were  always 
lying  within  her  reach.  A  bed  of  mignonette  sent  its  sweet 
sober  smell  into  this  room,  where,  during  the  brief  hours  of 
winter  sunshine,  or  the  long  afternoons  of  summer,  wrapped 
in  Indian  shawls  and  propped  up  by  cushions,  she  would  sit 
at  tlie  window,  her  eyes  fixed  with  an  earnest  and  singular 
expression  on  the  dull  landscape,  or  the  pale  northern  sky. 
The  illness  which  had  brought  her  to  a  premature  old  age 
had  also  slightly  impaired  her  speech  and  affected  her  mem- 
ory, and  hence  she  had  not  learned  to  speak  English  flu- 
ently. 

This  and  the  continual  sufferings  she  endured  had  isolated 
her  more  and  more  from  her  children.  She  sent  for  them  now 
and  then,  and  silently  pressed  them  to  her  heart,  or  for  hours 
watched  them  at  play  on  the  terraces  near  her  window  ;  but 
there  was  little  intercourse  between  them  and  herself.  They 
bounded  by  her  in  all  the  recklessness  of  youth  and  health. 
They  sometimes  stopped  to  kiss  her  in  that  half  fond  half-im- 
patient manner  with  which  children  return  caresses  which  de- 
tain them  from  their  sports.  She  had  nothing  wherewith  to 
attract  them  but  a  love  which  was  almost  too  timid  to  show 
itself  A  barrier  seemed  to  rise  between  her  and  those  impe- 
tuous young  spirits  which  were  rushing  into  all  the  fulness  of 
that  life  which  was  decaying  within  her  ;  but  who  could  count 
the  prayers  which  rose  from  that  lonely  heart  for  those  she 
scarcely  dared  to  love  as  other  mothers  love? — who  can  tell 
what  mysterious  deliverances  from  danger — what  sudden  ar- 
rests on  the  border  of  an  abyss— what  softenings  of  the  heart 
when  maddened  by  passion — what  strange  reactions  from  evil 
and  aspirations  towards  heaven — may  have  been,  in  after  life, 
the  result  of  those  prayers  poured  forth  on  a  bed  of  pain  by 
one  who  hardly  counted  in  her  children's  existence,  and  the 
pressure  of  whose  feeble  hand  was  often  the  only  token  she 
could  gi-ve  them  of  her  love? 

Once  a  day  her  husband  came  to  see  her,  and  sat  by  her 


LADT-BIRD.  7 

for  a  few  minutes.  His  presence  seemed  to  impart  a  chill  tc 
the  very  atmosphere.  Mrs.  Lifford  mechanically  drew  her 
shawl  tigliter  on  her  breast  during  these  visits,  and  her  face 
became  paler  than  at  other  times.  Sealed  were  the  secrets  of 
those  two  hearts  ;  how  little  or  liow  much  they  had  cared  for 
each  other  none  of  those  about  them  seemed  to  know,  "r^c•;^ 
ne  sc.  rcsscvihlc  cninme  le  ncunt  ct  la  profondrury  The 
smooth  surface  of  that  monotonous  existence  might  have 
covered  a  volcano,  or  concealed  an  abyss. 

The  children  of  this  marriage  were  strangely  unlike  each 
other.  Born  vmder  the  same  roof,  growing  up  amongst  the 
same  influences,  they  early  exhibited  the  most  striking  dis- 
similarity of  character  and  of  manners.  Edgar  was  a  fair  and 
gentle  boy,  whose  placid  gaiety  no  grave  faces  could  subdue, 
and  no  dull  mode  of  life  aftect.  Docile  and  pliable,  he  readily 
received  every  impression,  and  adopted  all  the  opinions  which 
his  father  put  forward.  If  Mr.  Lifford  cared  for  anything  in 
the  world,  it  was  for  his  son.  He  talked  to  him  of  his  ances- 
tors, of  his  possessions,  of  the  various  honours  which  had  been 
conferred  on  his  family  in  past  times,  the  alliances  they  had 
made,  the  historical  records  in  which  their  names  were  era- 
blazoned,  the  rank  they  held  in  the  estimation  of  all  who 
valued  the  real  nobility  of  an  ancient  descent  above  the 
paltry  distinction  of  a  modern  title ;  and  the  child's  large 
blue  eyes  expanded  with  wonder  and  admiration  at  the  great- 
ness of  all  the  Liffords  that  had  been,  that  were  now,  and 
that  would  be  hereafter.  He  felt  an  innocent  surprise  at  be- 
longing himself  to  that  favoured  race,  and  a  sincere  compas- 
sion for  those  whose  ancestors  had  not  been  Crusaders,  whose 
quartcrings  were  defective,  and  whose  genealogy  was  imper- 
fect. There  was  truth  and  goodness  in  the  nature  of  that 
child  ;  and  if,  in  his  father's  teachings,  there  had  been  some- 
thing akin  to  it — a  touch  of  feeling  or  a  spark  of  enthusiasm 
— they  might  have  kindled  a  noble  ambition,  and  if  in  some 
respects  visionary,  would  yet  have  taught  a  lesson  which  has 
redeemed  from  contempt  many  an  illusion,  and  exalted  many 
a  delusion.  '  Nohlesae  oblige  !  " — that  old  French  motto — 
would  have  been  the  source  of  generous  sentiments,  the  spur 
to  high  achievements ;  but  pride  in  its  coldest  and  hardest 
form,  and  in  its  most  miserable  proportions,  was  learnt  as  a 
lesson  and  ailoptod  as  a  theory  by  a  mind  which  it  served  to 
narrow,  though  it  did  not  pervert  it. 

But  there  was  another  mind  and  another  heart  of  a  fat 


8  LADY-BIRD. 

different  stamp  than  that  of  Edgar,  which  was  impressed,  in- 
deed, but  never  moulded  by  these  teachings.  It  would  have 
been  difficult  to  determine  whether  the  tacit  antagonism  which 
had  establislied  itself  between  Gertrude  and  her  father  was 
the  result  or  the  cause  of  the  dislike  he  seemed  to  have  taken 
to  her.  "Was  it  because  he  did  not  love  the  foreign-looking 
girl  whose  beauty  might  have  gratified  the  most  fastidious 
paternal  vanity,  that  she  never,  from  her  earliest  childhood, 
adopted  his  views,  imbibed  his  prejudices,  or  seemed  im- 
pressed by  his  stateliness  ? — or  did  he  not  love  her  because 
she  was  proud,  though  with  a  different  kind  of  pride  than  his 
own :  daring  and  untractable  in  spite  of  her  slender  form  and 
delicate  organisation ;  and  because  her  self-cultivated  intel- 
lect exercised  itself  in  independent  thought,  and  even  in  dis- 
guised sarcasm  1  If  for  a  moment  he  unbended  in  conversa- 
tion with  his  son,  his  rigidity  returned  the  instant  she  entered 
the  room,  or  that  the  sound  of  her  voice  reached  his  ear. 
Was  it  accidental,  or  from  a  strange  instinct  of  revenge  for 
his  coldness,  that,  when  scarcely  old  enough  to  appreciate  the 
meaning  of  her  words,  she  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  holding 
cheap  all  distinctions  of  rank,  all  ancestral  pride,  all  the  order 
of  ideas  with  which  her  brother's  ductile  mind  had  been  so 
easily  impressed  ?  Almost  before  she  could  speak  plainly, 
she  had  sung  about  the  house — as  if  in  defiance  of  the  old 
family  pictures,  which  seemed  to  frown  upon  her — the  old 
rhyme  which  had  marvellously  taken  her  fancy  : 

"  Wlitni  Adam  delved,  and  Eve  span, 
Where  was  then  the  gentlcaiiin  ?  '' 

As  she  grew  older,  she  sneered  at  heraldry,  irreverently 
laughed  at  coats-of-arnis.  put  embarrassing  questions  to  Father 
Lifford,  as  to  the  real  value  of  sucii  distinctions  in  a  religious 
point  of  view. — wondered  if  the  apostles  could  have  proved 
sixteen  quarterings ;  and,  in  reading  history,  it  was  always  the 
interest  of  the  people,  the  cause  of  Liberty — whether  in  the 
just  acceptation  of  the  word,  or  in  the  perverted  sense  in 
which  it  has  too  often  been  misapplied  —  that  aroused  her 
sympathy,  and  awoke  her  enthusiasm.  The  misfortunes  of 
kings,  the  heroism  of  loyalty,  the  prestige  of  great  names,  had 
not  the  same  power  to  move  her ;  and  her  brother — not  in 
malice,  but  in  the  simplicity  of  his  indignation — often  re- 
peated to  his  fixther  and  to  his  uncle  what  appeared  to  him 
her  enormities  in  these  respects ;  and   the  cold  contempt  of 


LADy-BIRD.  ft 

the  former,  the  dogmatic  manner  in  which  the  latter  con- 
demned them,  without  giving  an  explanation  or  permitting  an 
appeal,  only  confirmed  impressions  which  a  more  condescend- 
ing treatment  might  have  effiiced. 

Obliged  to  be  silent  at  home  on  such  topics,  Gertrude 
often  gave  vent  to  her  feelings  when  in  the  society  of  the  only 
companions  which  chance  had  placed  within  her  reach.  At  an 
early  age  a  severe  illness  endangered  her  life,  and  during  her 
convalescence  the  doctor  had  insisted  on  her  associating  more 
with  other  children,  as  the  only  means  of  checking  the  prema- 
ture development  of  her  mind,  and  diverting  her  from  the  in- 
cessant reading  which  was  rapidly  exhausting  her  mental  and 
physical  strength.  Father  Lifford,  to  whom  the  question  was 
referred,  suggested  that  Mary  Grey,  a  little  girl  a  year  or  two 
older  than  herself,  and  the  daughter  of  a  widow  who  lived  in 
the  village  of  Stonehouseleigh  with  whom  he  had  been  ac- 
quainted several  years,  would  be  the  fittest  resource  in  such 
an  emergency.  He  was  aware  how  carefully  Mrs.  Redmond 
had  brought  up  her  chikl,  and  also  the  one  which  her  second 
husband  had  bequeathed  to  her  care,  when — after  a  few 
months  marriage — he  had  died,  leaving  her  poorer  than  be- 
fore, and  witli  two  children  to  support  instead  of  one. 

Indeed,  it  was  supposed  by  those  who  knew  most  of  Mrs. 
Grey,  that,  wlien  she  consented  to  marry  IMaurice  Redmond, 
a  poor  artist,  whose  face  bore  the  impress  of  consumption, 
whose  heart  iiad  been  nearly  broken  by  the  loss  of  a  beautiful 
young  wife — an  Italian  singer — and  whose  last  days  were  em- 
bittered by  anxiety  about  his  little  son,  it  was  not  in  ignorance 
or  in  recklessness  that  she  did  so ;  but  that  if  her  heart  had 
been  touched  and  her  feelings  interested,  it  had  been  more 
through  that  pity  which  is  akin  to  love,  than  from  any  more 
romantic  motive  ;  that  she  well  knew  how  few  were  the  days  of 
happiness  that  awaited  her — if,  indeed,  with  that  knowledge 
a  thought  of  happiness  could  exist — but  that  she  also  knew 
that  she  thus  gained  the  right  of  soothing  those  few  days  of 
lingering  life,  and  of  seeing  a  smile  on  the  pale  lips  of  the 
dying  man  when  he  heard  his  little  boy  call  her  mother. 

Everybody  said  it  was  like  Mrs.  Grey  to  make  such  a  mar- 
riage, and  this  was  true.  It  was  very  like  her,  whether  those 
who  said  it  shrugged  their  shoulders  as  they  spoke,  or  had  a 
tear  in  their  eye.  She  made  many  sacrifices,  and  worked  hard 
in  different  ways  to  make  the  ends  of  her  small  income  meet. 
Maurice  always  called  her  his  mother,  and  when  they  were 


1 0  LADY-BIRD. 

cliildren  it  was  almost  impossible  to  make  him  and  Mary  under- 
stand that  they  were  not  brother  and  sister.  The  large  village  or 
small  town  of  Stonehouseleigh,  where  they  lived,  was  about  a 
mile  and  a  half  distant  from  Lifford  Grange.  It  consisted  of 
one  long  street,  on  one  side  of  which  flowed  the  same  stream 
that  passed  through  the  gardens  of  the  Grange,  now  widened 
into  a  river,  and  on  the  other  side  rose  some  hills,  to  whose 
breezy  heights  and  sunny  nooks  an  abundance  of  gorse,  of 
heath,  of  sweet-smelling  thyme,  and  of  shining  blackberries 
attracted  the  steps  of  little  wanderers  from  the  town. 

Mrs.  Redmond's  cottage  was  on  the  outskirts  of  the  High 
Street.  Every  inch  of  the  small  garden  that  separated  ifc 
from  the  road  was  encumbered  with  flowers  ;  lilacs  and  labur- 
nums, Guelder  roses  and  seringa,  dahlias  and  hollyhocks  suc- 
ceeded each  other  in  endless  variety.  Convolvulus  and  hearts- 
ea*?e  struggled  together,  sweetbriar  and  jessamine  hustled  each 
other.  Tliey  overran  the  paths  and  climbed  to  the  windows. 
Roses,  also,  in  all  their  rich  and  common  variety,  not  the  pale, 
hectic-tea-rose,  or  tlie  triumph  of  horticultural  art  and  Nature's 
degradation,  the  black  rose,  but  the  glorious  blooming  cabbage 
rose,  the  beautiful  moss  rose,  the  lovely  blush  rose,  lent  their 
perfume  to  the  air,  and  their  bright  colours  to  the  aspect  of 
the  little  garden. 

Mrs.  Redmond  had  lived  in  Normandy  at  the  time  of  her 
first  marriage,  and  had  imported  thence  a  number  of  rose-cut- 
tings, and  a  great  respect  for  tisanes,  those  simple  medicines 
of  the  French  peasantry.  There  were  few  of  her  poor  neigh- 
bours who  had  not  applied  to  her  for  remedies  against  their 
various  ailments,  and,  if  her  skill  was  not  always  successful, 
her  tender  charity  and  sympathy  were  seldom  unavailing. 
Gertrude  Liff'ord's  acquaintance  with  Mary  Grey,  when  once  it 
had  begun,  soon  ripened  into  intimacy.  For  some  weeks  they 
played  together  every  day  in  the  gardens  of  the  Grange ;  and, 
when  she  was  quite  recovered,  she  often  walked  to  the  cottage, 
and  persuaded  her  maid  to  leave  her  there,  while  she  visited 
her  own  friends  in  the  village.  Maurice  Redmond,  as  well  as 
Mary  Grey,  looked  forward  to  these  visits  with  the  delight 
which  children  feel  in  companions  whose  society  is  an  unex- 
pected pleasure,  an  unlocked  for  event.  Edgar  sometimes 
came  with  his  sister,  and  they  met  in  their  walks  on  the 
hillocks  of  the  downs  and  the  green  alleys  of  the  Chase. 
Some  of  the  village  children  were  occasionally  called  upon  to 
join  in  their  sports,  which  were  at  once  of  an  active  and  of 


LADY-BIRD.  11 

an  iraaginativo  cliaracter.  Gertrude  was  the  chief  object, 
actor,  and  ruler  in  tlie.sc  cliildish  jyastiiues,  Her  beauty,  in- 
tclligenoe  and  waywardness,  exacted  a  sort  of  homage  which 
they  all  instinctively  paid  her.  The  high-spirited  Maurice^ 
the  gentle  Mary,  the  shy  daughters  of  the  tenant  of  Leigh 
House  Farm,  and  the  sturdy  boys  of  the  game-keeper  at  the 
Lodge  owned  her  sway,  and  submitted  to  all  her  caprices.  If 
there  was  a  dispute  about  the  distance  between  the  pink  thorn 
and  the  acacia-tree — which  was  to  be  the  starting-point  and  the 
goal  of  a  race — it  was  her  verdict  that  settled  the  question. 
If  they  played  at  holding  a  mimic  court,  she  was  always  the 
Queen,  and  thrones  of  moss  were  erected,  and  crowns  of  wild 
flowers  woven  for  her  girlish  majesty. 

They  called  her  '•  Lady-lJird," — a  name  which  Maurice  had 
given  her  one  day,  when,  after  a  quarrel,  he  sought  to  appease 
her.  She  had  been  bent  on  some  rash  experiment,  against 
which  Mary  had  remonstrated  ;  provoked  at  her  interference, 
the  impatient  little  beauty  had  pointed  to  a  sober  looking 
insect  on  an  ivy-leaf,  exclaiming  at  the  same  time,  '■  You  are 
like  that  dull  moth,  Mary!"  At  that  moment  a  gorgeous 
butterfly,  with  gold  and  purple  wings,  had  dived  in  the  bosom 
of  a  red  rose  in  her  hand,  and  Mary  rejoined,  "  And  you  are 
like  that  gay  butterfly  ;  "  but  Maurice  cried  out.  "No,  Mary  is 
a  humble  bee,  and  you  a  stinging  wasp  !  "  Upon  which  the 
offended  beauty  burst  into  tears,  and.  to  make  his  peace  with 
her,  he  had  called  her  '■  Lady-Bird."  There  was  something 
appropriate  in  this  name. 

She  was,  in  a  restricted  sense,  the  only  little  lady  amongst 
them.  In  her  looks  and  in  her  manner,  there  was  a  mixture 
of  reserve  and  vivacity,  of  impetuosity  and  timidity,  which 
answered  to  it  singularly.  She  looked  so  pi-oudly  and  so 
gracefully  shy  if  a  stranger  addres.'^cd  her;  she  was  so 
passionate  and  easily  ruffled,  so  pretty  in  her  anger  and 
eloquent  in  her  wrath,  wild  in  her  mirth  and  restless  in  her 
movements.  All  the  children  in  the  neighbourhood  soon  knew 
her  by  that  name,  even  though  they  were  not — like  Mary 
and  Maurice — her  associates  and  playfellows.  The  urchins 
at  the  cottage-doors  used  to  call  out  as  she  passed,  '•  There 
goes  the  Lady-Bird."  As  time  went  on,  the  intercourse  be- 
tween Gertrude  Lifford  and  Mrs.  Redmond's  children  became 
more  habitual.  It  was  far  more  so  than  any  one  was  aware 
of,  except  the  maid  who  accompanied  her  in  her  walks.  Her 
father    knew   nothing  of   it,   and  her   uncle  had  no  idea  of 


12     •  LADY-BIRD. 

its  extent,  or  that  Maurice  was  as  often  her  playmate  aa 
Mary. 

He  was  one  of  those  boys  who  show  early  the  gifts  with 
which  Nature  has  endowed  them,  whose  genius  is  apparent  to 
the  most  common  observer,  to  whom  everything  seems  easy, 
and  nothing  unattainable.  With  few  facilities  for  education, 
he  had  managed  to  learn  a  great  deal.  He  had  read  all  the 
books  within  his  reach,  and.  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  had  made 
himself  acquainted  with  most  of  the  principal  English  writers, 
especially  the  poets ;  had  learned  some  Latin  and  some 
French,  and  made  sudi  progress  in  music — which  had  been 
his  father's  and  his  mother's  art — that  many  of  those  who  heard 
him  play  the  organ  and  the  pianoforte  augured  for  him  the 
distinctions,  the  advantages  and  suiferings  of  an  artist's  life. 
He  met  with  great  kindness  in  the  neighbourhood.  Books 
were  lent  him  ;  opportunities  of  hearing  good  music  afforded 
him.  An  organist  in  a  neighbouring  town  gave  him  gratuitous 
instruction. 

But  from  the  first  moment  that  he  became  acquainted  with 
the  little  girl  from  Lifford  Grange,  the  beautiful  Lady-Bird 
of  his  childhood,  a  new  impetus  was  given  to  his  imagination. 
She  entered  with  delight  into  all  the  schemes  of  childish 
amusement  which  his  fancy  could  suggest.  He  entertained 
her,  her  little  brother,  and  Mary  with  stories  which  he  remem- 
bered or  invented  about  Knights  and  Princesses.  Fairies  and 
Enchanters  ;  with  verses  which — though  rude  and  incorrect — • 
were  not  without  a  vein  of  poetic  genius.  He  taught  them  to 
sing  old  ballads,  to  recite  poetry,  to  act  historical  scenes.  All 
this  was  particularly  congenial  to  Gertrude's  lively  imagina- 
tion. She  liked  to  enact  Queen  Margaret  meeting  the  Rob- 
ber in  the  forest,  or  Amy  llobsart  disappearing  through  the 
trap-door  of  the  castle  ;  scenes  from  the  ■■  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,"  or  passages  from  the  life  of  Robin  Hood.  But  their 
grandest  and  favourite  performance,  reserved  for  the  long 
summer  evenings  and  the  prospect  of  an  uninterrupted  holi- 
day, was  Campbell's  ballad,  "  O'Connor's  Child,"  dramatized 
by  Maurice  to  suit  their  exigencies. 

With  a  bunch  of  shamrock  in  his  cap  and  a  wooden  sword 
in  his  belt,  he  knelt  on  the  greensward  to  ask  of  Edgar  the 
tand  of  his  sister,  while  the  little  boy  was  taught  to  stammer 
out  in  answer — 

"  Away,  and  clioose  a  meaner  bride 
Than  from  O'Couuor'a  house  of  priJe  ; 


LADY-BIRD.  18 

Our  name,  our  tribe,  our  high  degree, 
Are  luing  iu  Taraa  Psaltery. 
Witness  to  Eatli's  victorious  brand. 
And  Cathal  of  the  bloody  hand. 
Glory,  I  say,  and  power,  and  honour, 
Are  in  the  mansion  of  O'Connor, 
But  thou  dost  bear  in  hall  and  field 
A  meaner  crest  upon  thy  shield." 

(n  what  they  called  the  second  act,  Gertrude,  with  a  veil  tied 
•ound  her  head  and  a  cloak  loosely  thrown  on  her  shoulders 
«ant  her  head  on  her  hand  and  her  elbow  on  a  stile,  while 
Maurice  sang  the  lines  in  which  Conuocht  Moran  tempts  his 
nistress  to  fly  with  him. 

"  Come  for  from  Castle  Connor's  clans, 
Come  with  thy  belted  forester. 
And  I,  beside  tlie  Lake  of  Swans, 
Will  hunt  for  thee  tlie  fallow-deer. 
And  build  thy  hut,  and  bring  thee  home 
The  wild  fowl  and  the  honey-comb." 

[n  the  third  act  of  this  childish  drama  they  flew  together 
Ihrough  the  green  alleys  of  the  Chase,  her  feet  scarcely  touch- 
ing the  grass  as  she  ran,  repeating — 

"  And  I  pursue  by  moonless  skies 
Tlie  light  of  Connocht  Moran's  eyes." 

Then  they  stopped  under  some  hazel  trees,  and  built  tliem- 
selves  a  cabin  with  the  boughs;  and  he  went  out  to  search  the 
game  with  knife  and  spear,  and  she  "  his  evening  food  to  dress 
would  sing  to  him  in  happiness," 

"  Sweet  is  to  us  the  hermitage 
Of  this  untried  untrodden  i~liore. 
Like  birds  all  joyous  from  the  cage. 
For  man's  neglect  we  love  it  more." 

Then  came  the  fourth  act  with  its  death-scene.  How 
tragic  they  all  thought  it  !  In  an  old  hollow  tree  they  sat, 
Gertrude  with  her  fiuger  on  her  lips  and  her  glancing  eyes 
looking  timidly  about  lier.  Then,  with  her  mouth  close  to 
Maurice's  ear,  she  whispered,  "  I  hear  the  baying  of  their 
beagle,"  and  he  answered  in  the  same  key,  "  'Tis  but  the 
screaming  of  the  eagle."  Then  a  great  effort  was  made  to 
stir  up  an  old  dog  who  had  been  pressed  into  the  service  to 
enact  the  "  Couchant  Hound"  that  starts  up  and  listens,  but 


J  1  LADY-BIRD. 

this  generally  failed,  and  Edgar  and  Mary  witli  hats  on  and 
with  sticks,  personifying  the  murderous  brothers,  rushed  upon 
Maurice,  who  always  fought  too  long  and  would  not  let  him- 
self be  killed,  which,  as  Mary  observed,  was  very  unreasonable, 
as  it  was  part  of  the  play,  and  Gertrude  screamed, 

"0  spare  liim  Brazil,  Desmond  fierce!" 

till  she  grew  tired  and  hoarse,  and  fainted  away  before  her 
lover  was  fairly  killed. 

The  last  act,  however,  was  Gertrude's  delight.  She  recited 
wonderfully  well  the  spirited  lines  in  which  the  daughter  of 
O'Connor,  in  the  madness  of  her  passion  and  the  delirium  of 
her  anguish,  presents  to  her  assassin  brothers  "  the  standard 
of  O'Connor's  sway,"  and  pronounces  a  curse,  which  is  to  be 
fatally  fulfilled  on  that  battle  day,  and  which  dooms  their 
whole  race  to  destruction.  Her  eyes  flashed,  her  cheeks 
glowed,  her  slender  childish  form  trembled  as  she  cried — 

"  Go  then,  away  to  Athunree, 
High  lift  the  banner  of  your  pride, 
But  know  that  where  its  sheet  unrolls, 
The  weight  of  blood  is  on  your  souls. 
Go,  -where  the  havoc  of  your  kerne 
Shall  flt>at  as  high  as  mountain  fern  ; 
Men  shall  no  more  your  mansion  know. 
The  nettles  on  your  hearth  shall  grow, 
Dead  as  the  green  oblivious  flood 
That  mantles  by  your  walls  shall  be 
The  glory  of  O'Connor's  blootl. 
Away,  away  to  Athunfeo." 

Many  a  famous  actress  might  have  won  applause  for  the  look 
and  tone  of  wild  inspiration  with  which  she  swore 

"That  sooner  guilt  the  ordeal  brand 
Sliould  grasp  unhurt  tlian  they  should  hold 
The  banner  with  victorious  hand, 
Beneath  a  sister's  curse  unrolled." 

Such  were  the  amusements  of  these  children  during  about 
two  years,  and  to  Gertrude  they  were  the  happiest  she  had 
known.  Thou  E<]gar  went  to  school,  and  soon  after  Maurice 
went  to  a  school  in  London,  and  seldom  came  to  Stonehouse- 
Iciah.  Everytliinir  chanued. — Gertrude  and  Mary  were  still 
friends,  but  there  was  no  excitement  to  the  former  in  their 
intercourse,  and  the  latter  took  life  very  much  in  earnest,  and 


LADY-BIRD.  1  ft 

had  a  great  deal  to  do  in  her  own  home,  and  many  cares  and 
thoughts  and  occupations  which  Lady-Bird  did  not  under' 
stand,  and  in  which  she  had  no  sympathy.  And  though  they 
were  fond  of  each  other,  there  was  no  great  intimacy  between 
them  :  still,  enough  to  become  at  any  moment  closer,  as  it  did 
when  a  subject  of  common  interest  arose. 

The  link  that  connected  them  was  an  odd  one;  some  may 
think  it  unnatural,  but  people  arc  very  different,  and  young 
girls,  especially,  have  strange  grounds  of  sympathy.  Certain 
it  is,  that  the  circumstances  which  will  be  related  in  another 
chapter  served  to  bring  them  together,  and  to  give  an  interest 
to  th(!ir  intercourse  which  it  liad  gradually  been  losing  during 
the  last  few  years.  Perhaps  it  grew  out  of  the  fulness  of  ont> 
heart,  and  the  emptiness  of  the  other — something  that  re- 
quired a  vent  in  the  one,  avoid  to  be  filled  in  the  other.  This 
will  be  better  understood  as  the  story  proceeds. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Sweet  recreation  barred  wliat  (Ices  cnsnc, 
IJut  restless,  dull,  and  iiKiudy  nu-lanchuly, 
Sister  to  !.'riin  and  coint'orlU'Ss  despair. 
And  lit  lier  heels  a  liUfre  infections  lroo|) 
Of  pale  disteniperaturus,  ami  foes  to  life." 

SlIAKESrK.VKK. 

On  tho  pr  )strftte  stem  of  an  old  beech-tree  towards  the 
end  of  the  month  of  May,  about  six  years  after  Maurice  had 
left  Stonehouseleigh  for  London,  Gertrude  and  Mary  were  sit- 
ting in  a  s[iot,  which  exhibits  in  all  its  varieties  the  peculiar 
beauties  of  English  forest  scenery.  Tlic  first  tinge  of  spring 
was  colouring  witli  its  delicate  green  the  thorns,  the  aspens, 
and  the  briars,  which  in  innumerable  natural  avenues  and  pic- 
turesque intricacies  formed  a  labyrinth,  out  of  which  sturdy 
oaks  rose  in  grim  majesty,  their  gnarled  and  twisted  branches 
still  exhibiting  all  the  barrenness  of  winter,  save  where  here 
or  there  the  young  moss  or  the  misletoe  clung  to  their  rugged 
arms,  and  disguised  their  leaflessness.  Daisies  cowslips,  and 
primroses,  the  blue  hyacinth  and  the  frail  anemone,  were  scat- 
tered about  in  abundance,  here  in  i-ich  clusters,  there  in  bril- 
liant carpets,  everywhere  in  graceful  beauty  and  confusion.    It 


10  LADY-BIRD. 

was  exactly  the  moment  when  spring  shows  as  great  a  variety 
of  colours  as  autumn,  when  it  is  as  gorgeous  in  its  greetings 
as  the  latter  season  in  its  adieus.  As  shortlived  as  it  is  beau- 
tiful, this  hour  of  Nature's  promise  is  no  sooner  arrived  than 
it  disappears,  and  deepens  into  the  monotony  of  summer. 

Often  in  their  childhood  these  two  girls  had  met  to  play 
where  now  they  came  to  converse.  Their  bonnets  were  lying 
on  the  grass,  and  served  as  receptacles  for  the  flowers  which 
they  gathered  by  handfuls  without  moving  from  their  places. 
'•  So  you  are  expecting  Maurice  to  day  !"  Gertrude  exclaimed, 
after  a  pause  in  the  conversation.  She  was  answered  by  a 
smile  and  a  faint  blush  of  pleasure,  not  of  embarrassment. 

'•  How  this  spot  puts  me  in  mind  of  old  times  !"  (at  that 
age  the  lapse  of  a  few  years  constitutes  a  remote  antiquity) 
"  of  our  games  and  our  spoutings  under  this  very  tree,  upon 
which  we  are  now  sitting.  Is  Maurice  much  altered  since  he 
List  went  away  ?     Should  I  know  him  again  ?" 

'•  He  is  a  great  deal  taller,  but  his  features  are  not  changed, 
at  least  I  think  not,  but  as  I  have  seen  him  every  year  in  my 
winter  visits  to  my  aunt,  perhaps  I  can  hardly  judge.  His 
large  dark  eyes  and  pale  complexion  are  just  what  they  always 
wei*e." 

"And  is  he  as  fond  of  poetry  as  ever?  Music  has  not 
madu  him  neglect  it?" 

'■  O  no  !  lie  thinks,  like  Shakespeare,  that  •  music  and  sweet 
poetry  agree,  as  well  they  may — the  sister  and  the  brother  ; ' 
the  more  he  studies  the  one,  the  more  he  delights  in  the  other. 
When  I  was  in  London  he  brought  something  or  other  of 
that  kind  to  read  to  me  almost  every  evening.  It  was  pleasant 
there  to  hear  of  fields,  and  woods,  and  streams.  Only  it  would 
have  made  me  long  to  come  home  again,  if  only  he  could  have 
got  away  too." 

'•  Then  you  know  what  it  is  to  be  so  weary  of  a  place  as 
to  hate  the  very  sight  of  it  ?  " 

"  No,  not  quite  that  either ;  I  did  not  hate  London,  only 
I  like  the  country  much  better." 

"  ^V^hereas  I  would  give  anything  to  go  to  London.  It  is 
too  bad  really  never  to  have  seen  it." 

'•  You  can  hardly  imagine  how  different  it  is  from  Stone- 
houseleigh;  or  even  from  Lancaster,  Chester,  or  any  of  the 
towns  in  our  neighbourhood." 

"  Tbe  more  unlike  it  is  to  this  part  of  the  world,  the  better 
it  would  please  me.    The  thickest  of  the  London  fogs,  of  which 


LADT-BIRD.  17 

people  talk  so  much,  would  bo  brighter  to  me  than  the  finest 
day  at  LiiFord  G range." 

"  It  makes  me  sad  to  hear  you  speak  in  that  way  of  your 
home." 

"  My  home  !  "  (0  !  '  the  world  of  dreary  gloom  that  rose 
in  the  shadowy  depths  of  those  deep-set  eyes,'  as  the  word  was 
re-echoed  with  emphatic  meaning.)  "  You  who  have  had 
change  in  your  life,  Mary,  and  that  before  you  cared  or  wished 
for  it,  can  hardly  understand  the  pining  desire  I  feel  for  it. 
It  is  becoming  quite  a  passion  witli  me.  The  world  must  bo 
such  a  beautiful,  such  an  exciting  tiling  !  " 

'■Do  you  mean  the  world  that  God  has  made,  or  the  one 
man  makes,  according  to  Cowper's  definition?" 

"  I  mean  the  world  as  God  has  made  it,  as  man  has  adorned 
it,  as  genius  describes,  and  as  imagination  paints  it.  I  mean 
London,  not  as  you  saw  it,  Mary,  from  a  small  house  in  an 
out-of-the-way  street,  and  in  its  work-day  dress  of  business  and 
routine,  but  London  with  its  luxury,  its  wealth,  its  court,  its 
parliament,  and  what  Charles  Lamb — a  greater  poet  perhaps 
than  your  favourite,  Cowjjer — calls  its  poetry.  And  I  mean 
Paris  with  all  its  brilliancy  ;  Italy  with  its  bright  skies,  its 
paintings,  its  music,  its  ruins,  and  its  churches.  I  mean  the 
Alps  with  their  eternal  snows.  I  mean  the  sea  with  its  rest- 
less Avaves.  I  mean  politics,  and  literature,  and  theatres,  and 
society,  and  everything  that  has  change,  and  life,  and  spirit, 
and  movement  about  it.  That  is  what  I  read  of,  long  for, 
pine  for,  and  never  shall  enjoy." 

"  You  look  like  a  child,  Lady-l>ird,  but  you  do  not  talk 
like  one  ;  no,  nor  like  the  very  young  girl  that  you  are.  How 
do  you  come  to  know  and  to  wish  fur  all  these  things  ?  I  have 
seen  more  of  the  world  than  you  have,  but  they  have  scarcely 
entered  into  my  thoughts." 

"  Books,  Mary,  books  tell  me  a  great  deal,  and  give  me 
strange  feelings  of  pain  and  of  pleasure.  You  do  not  knov/ 
how  much  I  read — sometimes  for  hours  together;  and  when 
I  do  not  read,  I  dream.     Do  you  know  the  pleasure  of  that?  " 

"  Well,  I  rather  like  it  at  times ;  but  as  I  sleep  very 
soundly,  it  does  not  happen  to  me  often." 

Gertrude  smiled,  and  said  :  '•  I  do  not  mean  sleeping,  but 
waking  dreams, — sitting  with  folded  hands,  and  eyes  fixed  on 
some  object  that  amuees  without  engrossing  the  mind  ;  and 
letting  yourself  drift,  as  it  were  at  random,  down  the  stream 
of  your  impressions,  borne  here  and  there  by  the  current  of 

2 


18  LA.DY-BIRD. 

your  thoughts  ;  motionless  as  if  nothing  was  stirring  in  your 
soul,  and  weaving  the  while  the  thread  of  your  own  destiny 
into  a  web  which  a  sound  or  a  word  can  dissolve,  as  the  wing 
of  an  insect  breaks  the  light  gossamer,  or  a  breath  melts  the 
fanciful  landscapes  that  frost  prints  on  the  windows.  Have 
you  never  dreamed  in  titis  way,  Mary  ?  " 

Mary  answered  with  a  faint  blush  and  a  smile,  "  Yes,  but 
when  my  thoughts  stray  away,  I  endeavour  to  catch  and  bring 
them  back  again." 

"  Yours  always  run  in  the  same  direction,  I  suspect,  so 
you  always  know  where  to  find  them." 

Mary's  head  was  turned  away,  and  Gertrude  continued, 
"  The  last  book  I  have  read  is  '  Corinue.'  I  found  it  in  the 
library,  hidden  under  a  heap  of  pamphlets,  and  have  lived  in 
it  for  the  last  three  days.  It  has  redoubled  my  wish  to  see, 
to  hear,  to  live  in  short,  for  life  is  not  life  without  interest 
and  excitement,  I  am  sure  of  that.  You  read  French,  Mary — 
do  let  me  lend  you  '  Corinue ; '  it  will  show  you  what  I  mean 
so  much  better  than  I  can  express  it." 

•'  I  had  rather  not,  dear  Lady-Bird  ;  it  may  be  right  for 
you  to  read  such  books — it  would  not  answer  for  me." 

•'  I  believe  you  never  read  any  but  religious  books,"  Ger 
trude  scornfully  exclaimed. 

"  0.  when  Maurice  is  at  home  he  reads  all  sorts  of  things 
out  loud,  while  I  work — novels,  and  plays,  and  poetry  ;  but 
I  have  not  much  leisure  for  it  at  other  times.  Then,  you 
know,  our  positions  in  life  will  be  so  different,  that  what  may 
be  good  for  you  might  be  useless,  or  worse  than  useless  to 
me." 

"  My  position  in  life  ?  What  do  you  suppose  it  will  be — 
to  live  and  die  an  old  maid  at  Lifford  Grange,  or  retire  to 
some  nunnery,  perhaps?  Sometimes  I  have  so  longed  for 
something  new,  that  1  have  been  almost  thinking  of  that  last 
alternative.  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  they  had  sent  me  to  a 
convent-school;  I  would  have  wmked  day  and  night  to  distin- 
guish myself,  and  to  gain  prizes.  A  stimulant  is  everything, 
and  emulation  would  have  been  a  powerful  one.  Does  not 
your  heart  beat,  and  your  cheek  flush  when  you  read  some- 
thing very  eloijuent? — one  of  those  passages  that  rai.se  you 
half-way  between  earth  and  heaven?  You  smile,  Mary,  and 
I  know  what  you  would  say.  It  is  not  through  such  ecstacies 
as  these  that  we  can  rise  to  heaven.  But  better  rise  in  any 
way  than  grovel  on  the  earth  ;  give  me  the  wings  of  a  butterfly, 


I  Kb Y -BIRD.  19 

if  I  cannot  have  those  ot  an  angel.  Yo7i  never  get  absorbed 
in  anything  but  your  prayers ;  you  never  pore  over  a  book,  or 
meditate  on  a  poem  ;  once  on'y  1  have  seen  you  read  with 
your  soul  in  your  eyes  ;  but  it  was  the  life  of  St.  Francis 
Xavicr,  and  in  tliat — " 

"  Oh,  in  that  there  was  enough  to  make  a  heart  less  cold 
and  hard  than  mine  burn  within  itself  as  it  read,  and  even 
mine,  dull  as  it  is,  could  not  but  warm  at  sucli  a  flame." 

"I  thought  I  should  elicit  a  spark  of  latent  entliusiasm  by 
hat  allusion.  Kut,  tell  me,  does  not  Maurice  care  about  the 
things  I  was  speaking  of?" 

A  slight  cloud  passed  over  Mary's  face,  and  she  answered, 
•'  Only  too  much." 

"  Why  too  inuch^  if  they  are  not  wrong?  " 

"  I  can  hardly  explain  myself;  but  it  seems  to  me  difficult 
to  care  so  much  about  beauty  of  every  sort,  and  to  be  at  the 
same  time  always  contented  with  the  state  of  life  allotted  to 
us." 

"  But  Maurice  is,  or,  at  least,  means  to  be  an  artist,  and  I 
have  read,  and  I  think  I  can  understand  that  an  artist  lives 
on  beauty  of  every  kind,  and  that  variety  and  excitement  can 
alone  keep  alive  the  fire  that  inspires  him  ;  that  genius  dies 
away  in  an  atmosphere  of  monotony  and  dulness." 

"  But  a  quiet  life  is  not  necessarily  a  dull  one,"  expostu- 
lated Mary.  "  I  should  have  thought  that  genius,  and  art,  and 
all  those  things  you  speak  of,  ought  to  make  a  man  busy  and 
happy  in  himself,  and  in  his  Lome,  especially  if — " 

''If  what,  Mary?" 

Mary  bent  down  her  head,  and  twisted  together  the  blades 
of  the  long  grass  that  grew  at  her  feet,  and  then  looking  up 
into  Gertrude's  face,  she  said  with  simplicity : 

"  Especially  if  he  loved,  and  was  beloved." 

"  Love  ! "  Gertrude  repeated.  "  Love  must  be  a  very 
strange,  a  very  strong  thing.  It  may  be  the  deepest  of  all 
joys,  or  the  acutest  of  all  miseries,  but  a  quiet  calm  feeling.  I 
do  uot  think  it  can  be.  I  have  read  that  it  stirs  up  the  heart 
and  moves  the  inmost  soul,  as  a  storm  does  the  sea,  or  a  hur- 
ricane the  forest." 

"  If  so,  we  ought  to  fear  it,  but  I  do  not  believe  that  it  is  a 
right  sort  of  love  that  you  speak  of  What  is  riglit  should 
be  calm." 

'•  Can  that  be  calm  of  which  people  die  ?  " 

"  Do  people  die  of  love  ?  " 


20  LADY-BIRD. 

'•  Don't  you  think  they  do  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  would  it  not  even  then  be  possible  to 
suffer  and  to  die  calmly?  " 

Calmly  were  her  eyes  raised  to  the  soft  blue  sky  over  her 
head — but  Gertrude's  were  fixed  on  a  rapid  stream  that  mur- 
mured along  the  bottom  of  the  valley  where  they  sat. 

"  Now  that  brook,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  like  it  better  than 
all  the  other  beauties  of  Nature  put  together.  It  never  re- 
mains in  the  same  place,  it  hurries  on,  it  is  chafed  with  the 
stones  that  stop  its  onward  course,  and  I  like  it  for  its  anger ; 
I  love  to  see  it  foam  and  struggle,  and  long  to  help  it  on,  and 
send  it  faster  and  faster  where  it  is  going — " 

"  And  where  is  that  ?  "  Mary  asked. 

"Why  to  the  wide  sea,  I  suppose." 

"  And  then — when  it  gets  there  ?  " 

"  Then  it  is  lost  amongst  the  waves,  and  the  eye  sees  it  no 
more." 

"  0  !  does  not  that  make  you  think  of  life  and  eternity, 
and  would  you  not  rather  be  like  the  silent  stream  that  glides 
through  green  pastures  and  gives  freshness  to  the  fields  and 
beauty  to  the  flowers,  than  resemble  that  restless,  useless, 
brawling  rivulet  that  often  swells  into  a  torrent,  and  does  mis- 
chief in  its  course?  " 

"  Your  thoughts.  Mary,  are  all  tuned  to  one  key." 

"  Is  not  that  the  true  secret  of  harmony  ?  " 

"  A  discord  now  and  then  has  a  good  effect." 

•'  You  are  too  fond  of  them,  dear  Lady-Bird." 

•'  Harmony  can  be  very  dull,  and  dulness  harmonious. 
Since  Edgar's  departure  nobody  quarrels  at  Lifford  Grange, 
and  we  are  gradually  dying  of  ennui.  At  least,  I  am.  Every- 
thing goes  on  ''  CO  in  me  lai  pajner  de  miisique^  and  I  have  al- 
most wished  that  the  house  would  catch  fire,  or  I  the  mea- 
sles." 

"  Oh,  that  is  so  wrong,  dear  Lady-Bird.  Do  unsay  it 
immediately." 

"  I  did  not  say  the  small-pox.  I  should  not  like  to  be 
ugly." 

'•  Is  that  all  you  care  about  ?  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  you 
gpcak  in  that  reckless  manner." 

"  Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  not  happy,  and  I  like 
to  joke  better  than  to  complain.  Sir  Thomas  More  joked  on 
the  scaffold." 

"  He  might  well  smile  at  the  idea  of  death,  but  you — " 


LADY-BIRD.  21 

"O,  I  have  no  wish  to  die,  thougli  I  sometimes  talk  non- 
sense about  it.  I  can  be  at  times  more  serious  than  you 
would  suppose." 

Mary  took  Gertrude's  hand,  and  kissed  it  aiFectionatel3^ 
Both  remained  silent  a  few  instants,  and  then  the  latter  ex- 
claimed, 

"  It  is  so  trying  to  be  thwarted  and  teased  about  every  tri- 
fle. You  know  how  long  I  have  wished  to  have  a  dog,  and  a 
ehort  time  ago  the  coachman  gave  me  one — a  little  spaniel, 
one  of  the  breed  they  have  at  Woodlands.  It  was  my  con- 
stant companion,  and  the  greatest  amusement  to  me.  I  kept 
it  out  of  everybody's  way.  Jane  took  care  of  it  when  I  was 
in  the  drawing-room,  and  it  was  so  fond  of  me  that  I  loved  it 
foolishly  in  return.  Well,  last  Monday  it  escaped  from  her, 
ran  into  the  dining-room,  and  jumped  on  my  knees.  My  fa- 
ther asked  whose  dog  it  was,  and  when  he  heard  it  was  mine 
he  ordered  it  to  be  sent  away ;  I  begged  him  very  earnestly 
to  let  me  keep  it;  he  peremptorily  ret^used.  I  told  him  that  it 
was  fond  of  me,  and  he  sneered.  The  blood  rushed  to  my 
face,  and  I  said  some  passionate  words.  He  rang  the  bell, 
and  desired  that  a  groom  should  instantly  carry  my  dog  back 
to  Woodlands,  and  that  if  it  made  its  way  again  here  it  should 
be  shot.  0  !  Mary,  I  am  very  foolish  ;  but  I  can  hardly 
speak  without  a  choking  sensation  in  my  throat,  and  my  cheek 
burns  like  a  hot  coal.  God  forgive  me  for  what  I  said,  or 
rather  felt  at  the  time.    I  thought  of  Pelisson  and  his  spider." 

"  Was  Father  Liflford  there— what  did  he  say?  " 

"  He  never  looked  up  from  the  newspaper,  but  I  think  he 
frowned  and  bit  his  lip  when  my  father  spoke  of  their  shooting 
the  little  animal." 

"  He  has  not  been  shot  ?  "     Mary  anxiously  asked. 

"  No — he  was  given  to  a  lady  who  was  just  leaving  Wood- 
lands, and  she  took  him  away  with  her.  I  went  to  my  room 
and  cried  for  some  hours,  more  with  anser  than  with  sorrow. 
In  some  ways  my  father  treats  me  like  a  child,  and  in  others  as 
a  servant  or  a  slave,  and  I  am  too  like  him  to  endure  it 
patiently." 

"  But  you  have  a  great  deal  of  personal  liberty  ;  is  not  that 
some  compensation  1 " 

"  Liberty  to  wander  alone  about  an  extensive  prison,  that 
is  all;  and  even  that  is  the  result  of  neglect — not  of  kindness." 

"  Dearest  Lady,  are  not  your  mother  and  Father  Lifford 
kind  to  you? " 


22  LADY-BIRD. 

"  Mamma,  you  know  is  always  ill — always  suffering.  She 
can  seldom  bear  the  sound  of  a  voice  above  a  whisper.  She 
tolls  me  not  to  shut  myself  up  in  her  sick  room  :  she  has  hard- 
ly strength  enough  to  talk  to  me.  I  some  times  wish  to  be  more 
attentive  to  her,  but  I  do  not  know  how  to  set  about  it.  As 
to  Father  Lifford,  I  don't  think  lie  likes  me  much ;  Edgar  is 
his  favourite,  because  he  is  such  a  good  boy.  He  is  always 
finding  fault  with  me.  and  I  like  his  scoldings  better  than  papa's 
silence.  In  confession  he  is  sometimes  very  kind,  but  that  is 
quite  another  thing,  you  know.  H  would  be  kind,  perhaps,  at 
other  times  also  if  I  behaved  differently,  and  did  not  read  books 
that  he  disapproves,  or  ivouhl  learn  Spanish,  or  not  laugh  at 
the  divine  rights  of  kings,  or  think  Napoleon  a  great  man,  or 
not  talk  of  things  lie  says  I  do  not  understand,  but  which  I  am 
sure  I  know  more  about  than  he  does." 

"  0  Lady-Bird,  how  can  you  think  so  ?  He  must  be  much 
wiser  than  you,  at  his  age — and  a  priest  too." 

"  I  am  not  talking  of  theology,  or  morality,  or  history,  or 
geography,  but  of  otlier  things  which  I  have  read,  thought,  and 
made  up  my  mind  about,  and  which  he  will  not  even  discuss, 
or  allow  that  tliey  admit  of  argument.  I  cUire  not  speak  of 
them  before  papa.  There  is  something  under  his  silence  that 
frightens  me.  But  I  am  not  afraid  of  provoking  Father  Lif- 
ford, because  I  know  the  worst  he  will  say." 

"  That  is  not  generous." 

"  0  yes,  it  is,  because  he  says  all  sorts  of  severe  things  to 
me,  and  can  order  me  to  be  silent  if  he  chooses.  T"hen  I  con- 
sole myself  with  thinking  that  I  had  the  best  of  the  argument." 

"  Come,  come,  Lady-Bird,  I  will  not  listen  to  any  more  of 
your  iniquities.  The  sun  is  just  about  to  set  and  we  must  be 
going  home." 

'•  Another  day  over  !  another  sun  setting  !  another  to-mor- 
row coming !  "  Gertrude  murmured  to  herself,  as  with  her 
bonnet  in  her  hand  and  her  back  against  the  stem  of  a  tree, 
she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  gold  and  crimson  clouds  that  were 
blazing  in  the  west.  "  How  beautiful  they  are,  those  sunset 
clouds  !  How  like  another  world,  and  a  brighter  one  than  this. 
I  sometimes  think  that  the  land  of  my  birth  may  have  some  of 
the  dazzling  beauty  which  shines  in  that  western  sky.  I  am 
haunted  by  a  vague  recollection  of  tliat  country  where  I  was 
born  and  where  I  spent  the  first  years  of  my  life.  Perhaps 
the  air  of  the  south  breathed  into  my  veins  a  fire  which  will 
not  let  me  rest  contented  as  you  all  do.  in  this  dull  corner  of 
the  wide  world.     Come,  let  us  go  home." 


LADY-BIRD.  23 

^  Let  US  go  home  !  "  Words  that  in  some  oases  are  as  sweet 
music  to  the  ear,  and  the  deepest  joy  of  ''he  heart.  To  others, 
a  sound  full  of  sad  meaning,  a  tlidiiglit  tliat  weighs  heavily  oa 
the  soul,  and  clouds  the  brow  with  the  remembrance  of  suflFer- 
itig.  and  the  anticipations  of  trial.  Home!  Home!  Beau- 
tiful English  word  ;  shelter,  refuge— happiness,  or  consolation. 
Would  tliat  you  were  always  the  heaven  you  sometimes  arc; 
binding  up  the  bruised  heart,  or  gladdening  the  young  spirit ! — 
not  the  sanctuary  of  tyranny,  and  the  mockery  of  domestic 
bliss. 

"  I  must  go  home,"  Gertrude  Lifford  said  ;  and  Mary  Grey 
repeated,  '"  Yes,  we  must  go  home."  But  a  diflferent  tone  was 
in  the  voices,  and  a  diiferent  picture  in  the  minds  of  each  of 
these  young  girls. 

"  I  know"  (the  one  began  as  they  walked  along  the  alley  of 
hazel  wood  that  led  to  the  common),  "  I  know  you  think  it 
strange  that  I  am  not  more  attentive,  as  it  is  called,  to  my 
mother,  but  what  can  one  do  when  people  do  not  like  atten- 
tions, if  they  ask  one  not  to  put  oneself  out  of  the  way  on  their 
account  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,  show  them  that  it  is  love,  and  not  a  mere  sense 
of  duty  that  prompts  one.  Few  people  like  attentions  which 
do  not  seem  the  result  of  aflFcction." 

"  Love  and  aft'ection  are  strange  words  to  me.  I  thought 
that  duty,  not  feeling,  was  to  be  the  rule  of  our  actions.  I 
should  be  much  worse  than  I  am,  if  once  I  began  to  act  from 
impulse.  There  rises  up  at  times  in  me  a  spirit  of  defiance 
which  takes  possession  of  my  whole  being,  and  steels  my  heart 
against  all  gentle  feelings.  I  rebel  against  the  common-place 
things  that  people  say  about  lovir.g  others,  as  if  love  was  to  be 
called  up  and  laid  aside  at  ])leasure  !  It  is  possible  to  be  a 
slave,  and  it  may  be  a  duty  to  rontain  one,  (that  is,  by  the  way, 
one  of  the  points  about  which  I  argue  with  Father  Lifford) , 
but  to  make  oneself  love  people,  simply  because  it  is  right  to 
do  so,  is  an  impossibility,  an  absurdity.  You  looked  vexed, 
Mary,  do  not  suppose  that  I  do  not  love  mamma.  Heaven  for- 
bid— poor  patient  suffering  mamma.  I  do  love  her,  and  if  I 
did  not  I  should  not  say  so,  for  I  hate  every  description  of 
lying,  and  canting  lies  worse  than  any  others.  But  I  wish  you 
to  understand  that  your  way  of  considering  the  subject  would 
be  no  security  against  evil  in  a  nature  like  mine." 

"  But  when  I  speak  of  love  I  do  not  mean  a  mere  human 
feeling,  though  even   that"  (Mary's  voice  faltered  a  little  as 


24  LADY-BIRD. 

sire  said  this)  "might  teach  us  something  of  the  nature  of 
true  devotion  ;  but  I  mean  that  principle  of  charity  which  has 
all  the  force  of  duty,  the  vivacity  of  impulse,  and  the  tender- 
ness  of  affection." 

'•  Was  it  charity  that  used  to  make  you  so  attentive  to 
Maurice  ?  " 

A  deep  flush  suffused  the  pale  little  girl's  face,  but  she  an- 
swered steadily : 

"  He  was  always  delicate  ;  it  came  naturally  to  me  to  care 
for  him  and  to  watch  him,  and  it  was  too  great  a  happiness  to 
be  like  a  duty." 

"  He  was  very  captivating,  certainly,  and  clever,  also,  as  far 
as  I  recollect,  but  then  we  are  like  Miranda  in  her  island,  we  have 
no  opportunities  for  making  comparisons.  Do  not  be  angry. 
I  am  sure  he  was  charming.  Mamma  used  to  call  him  '  El 
Chico.'  and  Father  Lifford  liked  him  too.  How  old  is  he 
now  ? " 

"  About  twenty-one." 

'■•  Of  age,  then  ?  " 

'•  0  yes,  we  sent  him  a  large  nosegay  by  the  coach,  or  hia 
birthday  would  have  past  unnoticed." 

"  He  is  organist  at  one  of  the  London  chapels,  is  not  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  he  practises  and  composes  a  great  deal,  and 
reads  also  many  books,  and  writes  verses.  I  think  it  is  a 
good  thing  for  him  to  have  those  tastes — it  keeps  him  out  of 
mischief" 

"  I  see  that  your  fears  for  those  you  love  are  greater  than 
your  ambition,  Mary.  Do  you  value  his  genius  only  because 
it  may  keep  him  out  of  mischief?  " 

"It  is  my  way  of  saying  more  than  I  well  know  how  to 
say,  dear  Lady-Bird.      But  it  is  not  little  I  mean." 

"  I  believe  .you  often  do  mean  much  more  than  you  say, 
you  little  quiet  mouse,  and  that  if  one  went  deep  enough  into 
your  thoughts,  one  would  find  in  them " 

"  0  nothing,  I  assure  you,  that  would  reward  the  trouble  of 
diving.  But,  tell  me,  who  was  it  who  rode  just  now  across  the 
lane  to  the  common  1  " 

"  Mr.  Mark  xlpley,  the  son  of  Mr.  Apley  of  Woodlands. 
Had  you  never  seen  him  before?  He  rides  so  well,  and  has 
such  beautiful  horses  !  I  have  often  met  him  when  I  have 
been  walking  with  Jane.  One  day  that  I  was  gathering  some 
honeysuckles,  and  was  trying  to  reach  a  branch  tliat  was  too 
high  for  me,  he  caught  it  with  his  stick,  and  held  it  close  to 
my  hand." 


LADY-BIRD.  25 

"Did  you  thank  him?" 

"  Only  by  a  low  curtsey,  and  I  have  not  bowed  to  him  since, 
iflut  it  would  be  very  amusing  to  know  a  few  people.  Even 
such  a  little  thing  as  that  gives  one  something  to  think  about." 

If  Gertrude  had  at  that  moment  dived  into  the  thoughts 
of  the  little  mouse  by  her  side,  she  would  have  seen  her  inno- 
cent astonishment  that  her  dear  Lady-Bird,  whose  mind  was 
as  active  as  her  spirit  was  restless,  whose  love  of  reading  was 
a  passion,  whose  conversation — young  as  she  was — was  full  of 
originality,  should  want  '•  something  to  think  about,"  but  she 
was  not  right  to  be  astonished.  A  tendency  to  ennui,  joined 
to  a  craving  for  excitement  even  of  the  most  trivial  descrip- 
tion, is  the  disease  of  certain  minds,  and  there  is  but  one  cure 
for  it.  Call  it  what  you  will ;  self-education,  not  for  this 
world  but  for  the  next ;  the  work  of  life  understood  ;  perfec- 
tion conceived  and  resolutely  aimed  at;  the  dream  of  human 
happiness  resigned,  and  in  the  same  hour  its  substance  re- 
gained ;  the  capital  paid  into  the  next  world,  and  the  daily 
unlooked-for  interest  received  in  this ; — such  is  the  strange 
alchymy  in  which  God  deals,  and  the  secret  of  so  many  desti- 
nies which  the  world  wonders  over,  and  never  learns  to  under- 
stand. 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful  the  view  is  at  this  moment !  "  Mary 
exclaimed,  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the  common,  which  shone 
like  burnished  gold  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  while  the 
peculiar  perfume  of  the  gorse  in  full  flower  was  wafted  to  them 
by  the  evening  breeze.  Clumps  of  dark  lir-trees  rose  out  of 
that  sea  of  yellow  blossoms,  and  views  of  distant  country  and 
masses  of  forest  trees  were  visible  in  the  distance. 

"  You  have  wings  to  your  feet,"  Gertrude  cried  out  as  her 
companion  preceded  her,  while  she  stopped  to  gather  the 
feathery  balls  of  a  full-blown  dandelion. 

"  What  are  you  about,  Lady-Bird? — what  a  strange  nose- 
gay you  are  nuiking  !  " 

She  was  breathing  upon  the  downy  globe,  and  the  light 
Btamens  were  flying  away  in  every  direction. 

"  I  am  telling  myself  my  own  fortune.  Wait  a  minute, — 
I  see  them  still." 

"  What  do  you  see?" 

"  My  airy  messengers." 

"  Oh,  baby  of  sixteen,  to  play  at  such  nonsense  !  " 

"  Ha-'e  you  never  read  about  the  Indian  women  on  tho 
banks  of  the  Ganges  ?  " 


26  -  LADY-BIRD. 

"  What,  the  widows  who  burn  themselves  ?  " 

"  No,  the  babies  of  sixteen  who  kneel  by  the  broad  !».•  /, 
and  send  their  leafy  lamps  floating  down  the  stream  ;  and  A 
the  light  they  carry  is  still  burning  when  it  vanishes  from 
their  sight,  then  they  think  that  their  hearts'  desire  will  be 
accomplished.  Cannot  you  fancy  how  they  must  bend  over 
the  brink  of  those  deep  waters,  with  their  hearts  beating,  and 
their  eyes  straining  after  the  little  fiery  bark  that  follows  the 
current  ? — how  they  must  tremble  when  it  gets  entangled  in 
the  leaves  of  the  lotus ;  how  they  must  shout  for  joy  when  it 
turns  with  the  bend  of  the  river  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  fanciful  notion  and  a  pretty  one,  I  own  :  but  what 
made  you  think  of  it  just  now  ?  " 

"  I  have  my  superstition,  too  ;  but  I  am  a  votary  of  the  air 
— not  of  the  water.  I  send  my  messengers  aloft.  They  carry 
my  thoughts  with  them  on  the  wings  of  the  wind  ,  they  tell  my 
secrets  to  the  clouds  and  my  hopes  to  the  breeze.  There,  fly 
where  I  send  you  !  "  and  another  downy  ball  was  launched 
into  the  air,  and  the  wind  bore  away  the  light  atoms.  Onco 
a  sudden  gust  blew  them  back  into  her  face;  she  brushed  them 
away  and  said,  "  Tiiat  means  disappointment."  A  slight 
cloud  gathered  on  her  brow,  and  she  walked  on  in  silence  to 
the  gate  of  her  own  home,  the  old  Manor  House  of  Lifl"ord 
Grange.  There  she  parted  with  Mary,  and  sauntered  up  the 
avenue. 


CriAPTEll   III. 

"O  iilisi-nco  !  what  .a  ti)nnciit  woiiM'st  tliou  jn-ove, 
Wcr't  iiol-  tliat  tliy  .sour  Ici.siire  iiivt-s  swc-et  leave 
To  entertain  the  lime  witli  thoughts  of  Idve." 

SlIAKESPEiKB. 

Maky  hurried  home  with  a  quicker  step  than  usual,  and 
hastily  mounting  the  narrow  stairs  of  the  cottage,  slie  looked 
into  the  room  where  Maurice  was  to  sleep  that  night.  She 
suult  the  violets  v^liich  she  had  jnit  there  an  hour  before,  and 
fancied  they  bad  lust  .sunu'thiug  of  their  sweetness.  The 
books  he  had  left  in  her  care  were  neatly  arranged  on  tlio 
shelves.  A  little  picture  of  St.  Maurice,  and  a  black  protile 
of  herself — a  birthday  present  of  a  few  years  back — hung  on 


LADY-niRD.  27 

eacli  side  of  the  cliimney.  She  wiped  some  grains  of  dust  off 
the  deal  table  where  he  used  to  write  when  a  boy,  and  in  her 
heart  there  was  a  joy  that  made  it  flutter  a  little,  and  in  her 
eyes  a  shade  of  unwonted  excitement. 

For  a  few  minutes  she  stood  at  the  open  window,  gazing, 
on  the  London  road  as  far  as  her  eye  could  reach.  Then  it 
rested  on  the  one  tree  of  their  garden,  the  old  thorn  '"just 
flushing  into  green,"  on  the  narrow  gravel  walk  and  the  gate 
beyond  it,  on  each  familiar  object^and  then  on  the  sky  above 
them,  so  familiar  also  with  its  fleecy  cluuds  and  sunset  culuur 
ing,  and  yet  so  full  of  novelty,  in  its  ever  varying  cumbina 
tions  of  beauty.  Now  the  bright  hues  were  lading  away,  and 
the  twiliiiht  hour  was  arrived,  that  charm  of  northern  climes, 
that  lingering  adieu  of  the  parting  day,  which  is  so  sad  or 
soothing,  according  to  the  temper  of  our  minds. 

Every  noise  gradually  hushed  into  silence,  the  faint  rustle 
of  the  leaves  as  the  night  wind  stirs  them,  the  low  twitter  of 
the  birds  amongst  the  branches  that  conceal  them,  the  occa- 
sional distant  bark  of  a  dog.  the  fall  of  a  footstep,  or  the 
rumbling  of  a  carriage  far  away  on  the  high  road,  all  is  in 
harmony — all  is  subdued,  as  in  the  quiet  landscapes  of  Paul 
Potter,  or  in  the  poetry  of  Cowper.  The  mind  that  appreciates 
the  beauty  of  an  English  twilight  hour  must  be  at  once  calm  and 
imaginative.  It  is  neither  vivid  enough  to  excite  nor  powerful 
enough  to  captivate,  where  the  mental  faculties  are  stagnant 
or  the  action  of  the  soul  precipitate.  It  came  home  to  Mary'a 
feelings  with  peculiar  force,  and  had  she  ever  dreamed  life's 
moments  away,  she  would  have  done  so  then ;  but  she  had 
quite  a  morbid  horror  of  idleness,  and  turned  away  from  tha 
indulgence  of  a  few  minutes  revei-ie,  as  others  less  scrupulous 
might  have  done  from  a  sin.  When  she  went  down  to  thff 
sitting-room  her  mother  was  at  the  tea-table. 

••  I  have  been  thinking  and  thinkioi;,  Mary  dear,  what  we 
had  better  uo  about  a  Are  He  might  like  one  after  his  jour- 
ney, though  certainly  it  is  not  cold  to-day." 

'•  0  yes.  mother  !  one  of  your  French  wood-fires.  We  will 
light  it  with  the  cones  that  we  picked  up  in  the  Chase.  Wc 
can  make  it  burn  directly." 

In  a  moment  she  was  on  her  knees  before  the  grate,  and  a 
bright  flame  threw  a  glow  on  her  cheeks  which  the  night  air 
had  bleached.  Then  she  turned  round  while  still  ou  her 
knees  to  her  mother,  who  took  her  head  between  her  hands 
and  looked  fondly  into  her  eyes. 


28  LADY-BIRD. 

"  0,  mother,  how  foolish  it  is  of  people  to  sui'prisc  tjbeir 
friends.  It  takes  away  so  many  happy  hours  of  expectation." 
Then  starting  up,  she  exclaimed,  "There  are  the  wheels!  0, 
listen,  it  is  the  coach  !" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  the  sound  grew  more  dis- 
tinct, and  then  the  coach  itself  stopped  at  the  gate,  the  maid 
opened  the  door,  and  Mary  rushed  into  the  passage,  and  held 
in  her  breath,  not  to  lose  the  fir.'^t  sound  of  a  step — the  first 
accent  of  a  voice  that  had  been  music  to  her  ears  ever  since 
she  could  remember. 

"It  is  a  letter.  Miss  Mary,  not  Mr.  Maurice." 

Numerous  were  the  thoughts  that  had  time  to  shoot  across 
her  mind  during  tlie  seconds  that  intervened  between  the  ut- 
terance of  these  words  by  the  maid,  and  her  return  to  the 
fireside.  There  was  room  for  the  recollection  of  Gertrude's 
exclaiming,  ''That  means  disappointment!" — her  heart  in- 
wardly re-echoed  the  ejaculation,  but  added,  as  if  to  re-assure 
herself,  •'  He  must  be  coming  to-morrow."  Sitting  down  at  her 
mother's  side,  she  opened  the  letter,  and  made  a  sign  to  iier 
to  read  at  the  same  time  as  herself,  but  she  had  got  to  the 
end  before  Mrs.  Redmond  had  found  her  spectacles.  "Take 
it.  mother."  she  said  in  a  faint  voice,  "  I  think  we  ourrht  to  be 
very  glad;"  and  she  went  to  the  window  and  leant  her  fore- 
head against  the  glass  and  squeezed  her  hands  together,  trying 
very  hard  to  feel  glad. 

Wiien  lier  mother  had  finished  reading  and  called  to  her  to 
say  so,  the  struggle  was  over,  and  in  answer  to  the  anxious 
look  with  which  Mrs.  Kedmond  was  awaiting  her  comments, 
ready  to  grieve  or  to  rejoice  as  she  led  the  way.  she  was 
able  to  say:  "It  is  all  right,  dearest  mother.  We  must 
rejoice  at  his  good  fortune,  we  must  prefer  it  to  the  selfish 
pleasure  of  seeing  him  here  ;  but  perhaps  I  understand  now 
why  people  should  come  as  a  surprise."  Slie  tried  to  smile, 
but  the  attempt  was  a  failure ;  one  little  sob  escaped  her,  but 
after  that  she  went  about  her  business  as  if  nothing  was  the 
matter.  On  her  way  to  her  own  room,  she  walked  Softly  into 
the  one  she  had  that  morning  prepared  with  such  care.  and. 
carried  back  the  books  and  pictures  to  her  own :  there  she 
read  again  the  letter  which  she  had  so  rapidly  perused  at  first. 
It  was  as  follows  : — ■ 

"  My  dearest  Mary,  I  had  hoped  as  you  know  to  have  been 
with  you  to-night,  to  have  been  sitting  this  evening  betwecTi 
you   and   dear  mother,    to  have  heard  your  loved  voices,  and 


LADY-BIRD.  29 

looked  on  your  dear  faces,  and  can  hardly  believe  that  it  is 
not  to  be  so,  that  these  summer  months  which  we  had  so  reck- 
oned on  spending  together  will  see  us  further  apart  than  we 
have  ever  yet  been,  and  that  by  my  own  doing.  But  when  I 
tell  you  what  has  occurred, .  I  am  sure  you  will  think  I  was 
right  in  taking  advantage  of  an  oifer  at  once  so  unexpected 
and  so  advantageous  to  my  future  career,  and  to  the  destiny 
which  you  are  to  share  with  me. 

"You  know,  my  Mary,  that  you  have  made  up  your  mind 
long  ago  to  be  an  artist's  true  wife,  and  to  allow  me  to  love 
my  art  with  a  passion  which  you  have  promised  never  to  be 
jealous  of.  If  some  post  of  profit  alone  had  been  oifercd  to 
me,  some  means  of  making  money  Avhich  would  have  sej)arated 
me  from  you  fur  some  years,  I  sliouKl  have  either  rejected  it, 
or  at  least  not  accepted  it  without  consulting  you  ;  but  in  the 
present  instance  what  is  proposed  to  me  is  an  extraordinary 
opportunity  for  the  cultivation  of  talents  which  may  one  day 
make  me  eminent,  for  the  development  of  a  gift  which,  if  it 
exists,  I  must  answer  for  to  the  Giver,  not  let  it  lie  dormant 
in  the  mere  exercise  of  an  almost  mechanical  employment. 

"  I  believe  I  possess  it,  that  precious  gift  of  genius,  be- 
cause my  suiferings  and  my  enjoyments  are  of  a  peculiar  nature, 
and  ally  themselves  with  a  high  wrought  enthusiasm  or  an 
unaccountable  depression,  which  are  botli  unknown  to  those  in 
whom  that  electric  spark  has  never  vibrated 

"  Once  it  seemed  to  me,  dearest  Mary,  that  to  go  to  Italy, 
to  that  land  of  art,  of  music,  and  of  inspiration,  was  a  dream 
that  never  could  be  realised.  I  have  heard  others  talk  of 
what  Nature  is  in  those  southern  climes,  of  the  harmony  it 
breathes  into  the  soul,  of  the  influence  of  its  skies  on  the 
imagination,  of  its  very  air  on  the  spirits,  and  I  have  longed 
with  a  vain  and  ardent  longing  to  carry  there  my  dreamy 
conceptions,  my  imperfect  but  as  I  fondly  ho{>e  not  worthless 
imaginings.  Now  all  is  oflfered  to  me:  sunshine  and  leisure, 
variety  and  stimulus,  emotions  to  experience  and  liberty  to 
enjoy  them.  In  accepting  it  I  feel  that  you  wmII  accompany 
me  in  spirit  to  the  bright  scenes  I  am  about  to  visit,  that  the 
image  of  your  sweet  face  and  the  sound  of  your  gentle  voice, 
which  has  cheered  me  so  often  amidst  the  drudgery  of  many 
years,  will  accompany  me  henceforward  amidst  all  the  wonders 
of  Nature  and  art. 

"  A.S  usual,  I  have  allowed  my  thoughts  and  my  pen  to  run 
away  with  me,  and  have  not  yet  told  you  the  simple  state  of 


(50  LADY-BIRD. 

the  case.  It  is  this — a  few  weeks  ago  youDg  Dee,  the  painter  in 
whose  studio  I  was  lingering  in  admiration  of  a  fine  painting  that 
he  was  copying,  introduced  me  to  its  possessor,  who  happened 
to  enter  the  room  at  that  moment.  His  name  is  M.  D'Arberg. 
He  is  half  French  and  half  German  by  birth,  though  his 
mother  was  English.  He  speaks  exactly  like  an  Englishman. 
He  seemed  pleased  with  my  enthusiasm  about  his  picture,  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  me,  and  I  often  met  him  after- 
wards at  Dee's.  He  is  one  of  the  most  peculiar  persons  you 
can  conceive,  and  at  the  same  time  you  cannot  point  out  any 
peculiarities  in  liiui  He  is  handsomer  than  any  one  I  have 
ever  seen,  and  yet  if  you  ask  me  what  is  most  remarkable  in 
his  appearance,  I  should  say  it  was  the  look  of  repose,  and 
that  the  most  striking  charm  of  his  manner  is  that  he  has  no 
manner  at  all.  I  never  saw  such  perfect  simplicity.  He  does 
all  sorts  of  kind  and  extraordinary  things  as  if  they  were  the 
commonest  in  the  world,  and  in  such  an  unpretending  man- 
ner, that  you  forget  to  thing  them  strange,  till  you  think  over 
them  afterwards. 

"  He  was  speaking  yesterday  to  Dee  about  me,  and  what 
they  were  both  pleased  to  call  my  genius :  and  Dee  happened 
to  say  how  ardently  I  longed  to  go  to  Italy,  and  what  an  ad- 
vantage it  would  be  to  me,  but  tliat  I  was  too  poor  to  afford 
it.  He  pulled  his  memorandum  book  out  of  his  pocket,  made 
a  few  calculations  with  a  pencil,  and  then  told  him  that  he 
was  going  to  Rome  for  two  years,  and  that  if  I  could  arrange 
to  set  off  with  him  at  once,  he  would  take  me  there  to  assist 
him  in  some  literary  pursuits  he  was  engaged  in,  and  at  the 
same  time,  that  he  would  allow  me  leisure  and  afford  mo  op- 
portunities for  prosecuting  my  musical  studies.  Dee  said  he 
spoke  of  it  as  simply  as  if  he  had  been  proposing  to  take  me 
for  the  day  to  liiclimoiid  or  ]?righton.  You  can  easily  ima 
gine  my  agitation  when  the  offer  was  made,  and  what  a  mixture 
of  pain  and  pleasure  was  involved  in  it.  I  felt  I  could  not 
hesitate,  and  yet  to  go  without  seeing  you.  without  hearing 
from  you  !  but  I  knew  what  you  would  say,  what  you  and 
dearest  mother  would  feel,  and  I  accepted — and  rapidly 
achieved  the  necessary  preparations. 

"  They  were  very  kind  to  me  at  the  Chapel  about  resign- 
ing my  post  so  suddenly.  I  feel  shy  at  the  idea  of  such  long 
tete-d  LHe  hours  with  M.  D' Arberg.  I  hope  he  will  not  weary 
of  my  society.  I  have  so  little  to  say  for  myself,  except  to 
those  with  whom  I  think  aloud,  like  you  and  Dee.     This  eve 


LADT-BIKD.  31 

ning,  when  you  will  bo  expecting  me  at  the  green  gate,  I  shall 
be  on  my  way  to  Italy.  0,  Mary,  that  thought  makes  me 
wretched  !  I  hope  you  will  not  think  me  unkind.  You  would 
not  think  me  indifferent,  if  you  wore  to  see  the  kisses  I  im- 
print on  this  paper,  and  the  tears  that  fall  upon  it.  I  shall 
always  wear  round  my  neck  what  you  gave  me  when  we  last 
parted.  Give  mother  one  of  your  gentle  kisses  for  me.  O 
that  I  could  clasp  you  both  to  my  heart ! 

"  Does  Lady-Bird  ever  embrace  you  now?  She  was  no 
proud  when  we  used  to  act  together.  But  now.  if  we  were  to 
meet,  I  should  have  to  call  her  Miss  Liftnrd,  and  to  kiss  even 
her  hand  would  be  too  much  boldness.  Will  you  tell  Father 
Lifford  how  much  I  regret  not  to  have  had  his  blessing  before 
my  departure.  Write  to  me  often — pray  for  me,  think  of  me, 
love  me,  and  believe  me,  your  ever  affectionate  and  devoted 

"  Maurice." 

Was  it  very  unreasonable  of  Mary  not  to  feel  satisfied 
with  this  letter  ? — to  have  wished  that  there  had  not  been  so 
many  fine  words  in  it? — to  be  as  jealous  of  Italy  as  if  it  were 
an  enemy  ? — to  go  to  sleep  with  an  aching  at  her  heart  deeper 
than  the  pain  of  separation,  and  which  re-produced  itself  in  a 
variety  of  dreams,  all  relating  to  Maurice  ?  She  was  always 
going  to  hira,  and  getting  near  him  without  being  able  to  over- 
take him.  or  to  make  him  listen  to  her.  Sometimes  tlie  form 
of  a  woman,  whose  features  she  could  not  discern,  was  hovering 
round  him  and  keeping  her  at  a  distance.  When  she  disap- 
peared, another  took  her  place  and  sang  a  beautiful  song,- in 
which  Maurice  joined  while  she  could  not,  and  the  spot  where 
she  was  standing — and  where  she  felt  herself  rooted — was 
growing  darker  and  darker,  while  he  and  the  bright  vision 
were  disappearing  along  a  road  of  light  such  as  the  sunbeams 
form  on  the  flashuig  foam  of  the  billows.  She  made  a  great 
effort  to  follow  them,  and  awoke  with  her  pillow  wet  with 
tears,  and  his  letter  in  her  hand.  He  the  while  was  crossing 
the  sea  with  a  fair  wind  and  a  careless  heart,  over  which 
thoughts  of  tenderness  and  of  regret  careered  swiftly  ar.d 
lightly  as  the  fleecy  clouds  which  scud  before  the  breeze,  and 
throw  no  shade  on  the  glad  waves  of  the  oce.in. 

'•  Come  now,  Mary,  tell  me  the  truth-  Maurice  is  yoai 
lover — I  am  sure  of  it.'" 

"  He  loves  me  very  much,  and  I  love  him  dearly." 


82  LADY-BIRD. 

"  But  I  mean  that  you  are  engaged  to  marry  him." 

"  0,  no  !  " 

"  No  !  but  in  this  letter  he  says  as  much  ?  " 

'•  We  are  both  perfectly  free." 

"  He  does  not  seem  to  have  any  doubt  of  your  affection.*' 

"  No.      He  never  could  doubt  of  that." 

"  I  am  not  talking  of  sisterly  aftection.  What  I  mean  ia 
that  he  reckons  on  your  sharing  his  fate,  whatever  it  may  be." 

'•  We  have  always  been  accustomed  to  talk  and  to  think  in 
that  way.  But  it  does  not  mean  all  you  suppose.  We  have 
never  made  any  promises." 

The  interest  that  Gertrude  had  shown  in  Mary's  disap- 
pointment, the  numerous  questions  she  had  asked  on  the 
subject,  her  evident  desire  to  see  the  letter  he  had  written, 
and  which  jMary  readily  enough  had  yielded  to,  had  occasioned 
the  foregoing  conversation.  Perhaps  she  was  not  sorry  to 
see  what  impression  it  would  make  on  one  not  keenly  inte- 
rested like  herself  in  its  contents.  Gertrude's  curiosity  was 
roused  by  the  little  romance  it  disclosed,  and  Maurice's  way 
of  writing,  his  account  of  M.  D'Arberg,  his  longings  after 
change  and  novelty,  with  which  she  could  so  entirely  sympa- 
thise, formed  a  glimpse  into  the  world  which  captivated  her 
fancy.  She  entered  into  the  subject  with  a  zest  and  an  intel- 
ligence which  became  irresistibly  agreeable  to  Mary.  How- 
ever well  regulated  the  mind  may  be — however  disciplined 
the  feelings — it  is  scarcely  possible  that  a  girl  Of  her  age 
should  keep  locked  up  in  her  own  breast  the  one  thought 
tliat  fills  her  existence  ;  and  the  more  matter-of-fi)ct  are  her 
habits  of  life  and  of  mind,  the  less  acquaintance  she  has  with 
novels  and  poems  and  the  romantic  experience  of  others,  the 
more  perhaps  is  felt  the  need  of  such  sympathy.  Not  that 
Mary  abandoned  her  accustomed  reserve,  and  made  what  is 
called  a  confidante  of  Gertrude.  On  the  contrary,  she  never 
admitted  tliat  she  was  engaged  to  Maurice,  or  that  she  con- 
sidered any  of  his  aftectionate  expressions  as  assurances  tha': 
e  loved  her  more  than  he  had  always  done  since  earliest 
childhood,  or  than  she  would  and  might  love  him  to  her  dying 
day,  even  should  they  never  be  more  to  each  other  than  in  the 
past  or  the  present  time.  It  was  an  odd  instinct  that  made 
her  at  once  so  reserved  and  so  communicative.  She  had  her 
secret,  with  which  no  one  was  to  intermeddle  ;  but  to  talk  of 
lilm  to  somebody  besides  her  mother  (who  was  a  sort  oi 
second  self)  was  an  unspeakable  satisfaction. 


LAD^-BIRD.  .  33 

And  Gertrude  liad  also  a  singular  power  of  extorting  more 
than  -winning  confidence.  Slie  (luestioned  witii  a  sagacity — 
investigated  a  subject  with  a  perseverance  which  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  evade.  She  was  unconsciously  artful  with  all 
her  jrlayful  brustjuerie,  and  always  on  the  watch  where  her 
interest  was  excited.  jViaurice'f  allusion  to  herself  and  the 
sort  of  homage  it  implied  had  amused  her  imagination.  It 
reminded  her  of  their  former  intimacy,  and  she  did  not  dis- 
like the  thought  that  he  preserved  a  sort  of  respectful  remem- 
brance of  it,  tinged  with  a  shade  of  romance  tliat  did  not  in 
the  least  interfere  with  what  appeared  to  be  his  attachment 
to  the  companion  of  his  ehildliood.  It  became  an  established 
thing  that  she  sliould  read  his  letters — and  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  a  person  in  that  manner  had  a  peculiarity  in  it 
which  amused  her  fancy.  Her  connuents  upon  them  furnished 
Mary  with  more  piquant  materials  for  her  answers  than  she 
would  otherwise  have  found.  But,  always  scrupulous,  she 
carefully  prefaced  such  remarks  with  "  Lady-Bird  thinks"  or 
"  Lady-Bird  says."  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  thus  she  could 
keep  more  on  a  level  with  his  present  state  of  mind,  and  as 
if  the  intelligent  comments  on  his  descriptions  of  Italy  and 
of  society — which  Gertrude  dictated — kept  up  between  them 
a  more  animated  intercourse  than  she  could  otherwise  have 
sustained,  and  it  was  strange  how  these  two  girls  during  that 
time  lived  in  thought  amidst  the  scenes,  the  persons,  and  the 
objects  which  the  young  artist  described  ;  but  it  was  in  a 
totally  different  way.  His  presence  amongst  them — his  image 
ever  present  before  her  mental  sight  was  what  gave  llicDh 
interest  in  Mary's  eyes;  whereas  in  Gertrude's  it  was  his 
connection  with  a  world  which  she  pined  to  be  acquainted  with 
which  gave  kiiii  importance. 

He  wrote  well  ;  he  lived  with  artists  and  literary  men. 
He  spoke  of  Italy  with  an  enthusiasm  that  kindled  hers.  The 
very  names  of  the  places  which  he  mentioned  were  music  to 
her  ears  :  it  was  like  the  sound  of  the  trumpet  to  the  war- 
horse,  or  the  cry  of  the  hounds  to  the  hunter,  for  the  self- 
taught  but  deeply  read  and  excitable  girl,  to  hear  of  poetry  in 
real  life,  of  history  in  visible  monuments,  of  religion  in  its 
grandest  and  most  majestic  symbols.  The  wild  Italian 
dreams  of  liberty  and  independence  which  were  stirring  many 
hearts  at  that  period  wore  reflected  in  his  eloquent  words,  and 
added  another  element  to  the  fervour  of  his  effusions.  He 
had  become  intimate  with  artists  of  all  sorts,  and  several  emi- 

3 


34  LADY-BIRD. 

nent  persons  had  shown  him  great  kindness.  His  efforts,  hia 
studios,  his  occasional  successes,  his  hopes  and  his  fears,  his 
friendships,  his  gratitude,  his  hatreds,  his  sympathies  were  all 
uncertain,  ardent,  wayward  and  fanciful,  as  also  were  the  com- 
positions -which  from  time  to  time  he  put  forth,  and  ^hich 
were  applauded  hy  some  and  criticised  by  others. 

There  was  genius  in  everything  he  composed,  but  not 
enough  unity  of  purpose,  or  concentration  of  mind  for  excel- 
lence ;  but  he  was  perhaps  too  young  yet  to  excel,  and  hia 
good  looks,  his  intelligence,  his  admiration  for  Italy,  and  pas- 
sion for  his  art  won  him  favour  with  all  his  associates. 

Mary  always  showed  Gertrude  his  letters ;  whether  they 
contained  expressions  of  affection  for  herself,  or  projects  for 
the  future,  or  allusions  to  his  childish  recollections  of  her 
whom  he  always  called  "  Lady-Bird."  But,  as  was  said  before, 
into  the  secrets  of  her  own  heart  she  did  not  admit  her. 
With  all  her  ingenuity  and  penetration,  Grertrudc  could  not 
satiisfy  herself  as  to  the  precise  nature  of  Mary's  feelings  fur 
Maurice,  or  as  to  the  seriousness  of  his  attacliment  to  her,  and 
this  doubt  was  a  perpetual  stimulus  to  her  curiosity.  The 
passages  about  herself  in  his  letters  pleased  her  imagination, 
and  she  felt  slightly  disappointed  if  in  two  or  three  succes- 
sively there  was  no  allusion  of  the  sort. 

Once  he  wrote  from  Florence :  '•  1  was  sitting  this  morn- 
ing on  one  of  the  benches  of  the  Cascino,  enjoying  the  fresh  air 
after  a  night  of  intense  study,  listening  to  the  murmurs  of  the 
Arno,  and  the  distant  sounds  of  the  gay  city.  A  flower  girl 
passed  me,  and  threw  into  my  lap  a  hyacinth  and  a  sprig  of 
jessamine.  She  laughed  and  told  me  they  would  help  me  to 
dream  of  my  absent  mistress.  The  gift  and  the  smile  were  both 
charming,  and,  strange  to  say,  both  flowers  were  associated  in 
my  mind  with  recollections  of  home  and  of  the  past : — you,  my 
Mary,  with  the  pure  white  little  flower  that  you  were  always 
so  fond  of,  and  our  Lady-Bird  with  the  sweet  perfume  and 
glorious  colour  of  hyacinth.  It  was  the  sceptre  she  always 
chose  when  she  acted  Titania.  The  Italian  girl  had  indeed 
thrown  a  spell  over  my  dreams,  and  I  remained  long  in  that 
spot,  treading  again  in  fancy  the  alleys  of  the  Chase,  and 
living  over  in  imagination  the  happy  days  of  our  childhood." 

After  a  long  interval  he  wrote  thus  from  Rome  : 

"  Have  you  ever  been  pursued  by  a  consciousness  that 
certain  objects,  certain  faces,  certain  appearances,  have  a  re- 
lation to  your  fate,  a  deeper  meaning,  a  different  sense  for  you 


LADV-BIRD.  35 

than  for  the  rest  of  the  world — an  influence  over  jou  which 
you  feel  without  being  able  to  apalyse  it  ?  Some  eyes  have 
had  that  effect  upon  me.  Whenever  I  have  seen  the  peculiar 
expression  I  mean,  it  has  always  caused  me  an  unaccountable 
emotion  ;  and  I  have  an  intimate  conviction  that  such  eyes  as 
those  must  have,  at  some  time  or  other  of  my  life,  some  strange 
connection  with  my  destiny — whether  for  good  or  for  evil  I 
know  not.  It  is  not  often  that  I  have  met  with  the  eyes  I  mean, 
and  when  I  have  done  so,  it  has  been  in  faces  as  different  as 
possible  in  every  other  respect ;  in  the  old  and  in  the  young, 
in  men  and  in  women.  Otlter  eyes  look  at  you,  these  look 
into  you.  I  can  only  compare  the  glance  I  mean  -to  a  ray  of 
light  shining  through  the  darkest  leaf  of  a  purple  heartsease. 
Before  I  left  England  T  never  met  with  it  but  in  one  person. 
Look  well  at  Jiady-l^ird  the  next  time  you  see  her,  and  then 
tell  me  if  you  perceive  what  I  mean.  Since  I  have  been  abroad 
I  have  observed  it  once  in  an  old  monk  who  was  praying  in 
one  of  the  side  chapels  of  the  Cathedral  of  Padua,  another 
time  in  an  actress  I  saw  performing  the  part  of  Francesea  di 
Rimini  at  Naples,  and  once  again  very  lately  in  one  of  the 
handsome  boys  who  were  begging  on  the  steps  of  the  Pincio. 
Was  there  a  likeness  in  the  soul  that  spoke  through  these 
eyes — else  why  that  strange  resemblance,  when  all  else  was 
dissimilar?  I  have  mused  upon  this  for  hours,  and  almost 
lost  myself  in  thought.  But  what  I  cannot  lose  is  tlie  habit 
of  talking  aloud  to  you,  dear  Mary  ;  though  I  can  fancy  that 
your  eyes,  which  have  never  looked  anything  but  peace  into 
my  soul,  are  now  gently  smiling  at  my  fanciful  folly." 

Again,  some  months  later,  he  wrote  thus  from  Najiles . 

"  Countries,  like  names,  like  flowers,  like  sounds,  have  a 
likeness  to  particular  people,  independently,  I  thijik,  of  all 
association.  That  the  calm  beauty  of  an  English  landscape 
should  always  put  me  in  mind  of  you  is  not  extraordinary — ■ 
for  we  have  lived  and  grown  up  together  amidst  its  quiet 
scenery :  but  why  does  this  country  so  often  bring  to  my 
recollection  the  image  of  Lady-Bird,  as  I  remember  her  in  our 
days  of  forest  games  and  fireside  stories?  The  other  day  at 
Sorrento  one  of  my  Italian  friends  was  repeating  to  me,  as  we 
sat  by  the  sea-shore,  almost  intoxicated  by  the  perfume  of  the 
orange-blossoms,  Filicaja's  well-known  address  to  Italy.  When 
he  pronounced  the  words.  '  Fatal  gift  of  beauty,'  I  instantly 
saw  before  me  licr  face,  with  that  eager,  wistful,  and  sorrow- 
fully-indignant expression  it  always  had   when   listening  to 


.1(5  LADY-BIRD. 

some  talrt  of  pity  or  of  crime.  0  God  forbid  that  to  her  the 
gift  of  bo^uty  should  be  fatal !  Let  her  rosemble  Italy  in  ita 
charm,  but  never  in  its  woe  !  " 

At  another  time  he  reminded  them  of  some  rude  versos  ho 
had  addressed  as  a  boy  to  Gertrude,  and  which  ran  thus : — 

'  Come,  Lady- Bird  ;  come,  rest  you  here ;  O  do  not  fly  away, 
See,  we  have  made  a  throne  for  you  ;  come,  foki  your  wings  and  staj. 
We  do  not  love  the  dragon-fly  that  darts  about  the  lea, 
We  care  not  for  gay  butterflies,  all  gorgeous  though  they  be; 
We  do  not  love  the  birds  that  soar  so  freely  up  on  high, 
We  do  not  care  for  those  that  siug  their  matins  in  the  sky ; 
We  do  not  love  the  red  rose  wild,  all  bi'ight  with  early  dew, 
But  we  love  you,  the  '  Lady-Bird,'  and  weave  a  crown  for  you. 
We  read  of  humming-birds  whose  wings  like  living  jewels  glow, 
We  ween  the  Lady-Bird  has  eyes  that  still  more  brightly  show ; 
We  see  the  tire-flies  sliine  at  night,  in  countries  for  away, 
We  care  not  for  their  light  if  she  will  fold  her  wings  and  stay." 

And  he  said  that  he  had  translated,  or  rather  imitated  it  in 
French,  and  set  it  to  music  ;  that  it  had  had  great  success,  and 
was  sung  at  all  the  concerts  during  that  winter.  "  C'est  la 
fiUe  des  cieux,  c'est  I'oiseau  du  bon  Dieu  "  was  the  favourite 
romance  of  the  season.  Once  he  had  heard  a  peasant  girl  on 
the  shore  at  Amalfi  warble  a  few  notes  in  a  voice  that  re- 
minded him  of  hers,  or  in  a  picture  gallery'  he  had  seen  a  face 
that  was  like  her.  or  some  famous  actress  had.  by  a  look  or  a 
gesture,  made  him  think  of  "  O'Connor's  child"  in  the  green 
bowers  of  Oakland  Chase. 

In  the  course  of  the  time  that  he  remained  in  Italy  Mary 
was  once  very  ill,  and  Mrs.  Redmond,  who  was  wholly  em- 
ployed in  nursing  her,  asked  Gertrude  to  write  to  him  and 
explain  the  reason  of  their  silence.  The  task  was  not  un- 
pleasing.  Tind  she  called  him  "  dear  Maurice,"  as  she  had  done 
when  they  were  children.  And  when  Mary  was  recovering, 
she  wrote  under  her  dictation,  and  mingled  playful  comments 
of  her  own  with  the  more  grave  communications  she  was 
charged  to  make,  and  in  this  way  a  sort  of  correspondence 
was  established  which  amused  them  all.  Nobody  knew  of  it 
at  the  Grange,  and  no  one  thought  it  odd  at  the  cottage. 
Time  went  on,  and  no  events  marked  its  course.  In  gloom 
and  in  sunshine,  through  the  winter  and  the  summer,  it  sped 
its  onward  way,  unmarked  by  any  vicissitudes,  unenlivened  by 
any  change,  except  those  modifications  which  it  wrought  in  the 
character  of  one  who  was  passing  from  girlhood   into  woman 


LADY-BI1!D.  37 

hood  in  constant  struggles  with  herself,  in  warfare  with  her 
own  thoughts  and  feelings,  but  with  hardly  any  contact  witli 
the  world  without. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"  Now  bank  and  brao  arc  cb'tbeil  in  preen, 
Am'  ppattcreil  cowslips  sweetly  spring. 
An'  binlifs  tlit  on  wanton  win^j. 
There  wi'  niv  .Mary  let  ine  Hec, 
Tliere  catcli  Yier  ilka  crlancc  <>'  love, 
The  bonny  blink  o'  Mary's  ee!  ' 

Burks. 

"  With  goddess-liko  (Ipnionnnur  forth  she  went. 
Not  unattended,  for  on  her  as  queen 
A  jioii)])  (iC  winniui;  <rrnces  wailed  still ; 
And  from  about  her  shot  darts  of  desire 
Into  all  eyes,  to  wish  her  still  in  sight." 

Spensec. 

Three  years  had  elapsed  since  the  time  when  this  story  be- 
gan, and  Maurice  Uedniond  had  returned  from  Italy  with 
stronger  health,  keen  aspirations  after  success  and  distinction, 
a  nuiid  stored  with  images  of  beauty  and  dreams  of  harmony, 
and  to  all  appearance  a  heart  unchanged  in  its  warm  affection 
for  the  mother  and  the  companion  of  his  childhood.  On  a 
sultry  evening  in  August,  not  many  days  after  his  arrival,  he 
sauntered  with  Mary  Grey  towards  an  old  stone  bridge  over 
the  Leigh,  about  a  mile  from  the  village.  The  river  at  that 
spot  was  bright  and  clear ;  the  alders,  with  their  dark  foliage, 
were  reflected  in  its  waters  as  in  a  mirror;  water-cresses  and 
forget  me-nots  floated  near  its  shores  ;  the  stately  mullein 
grew  on  its  banks  ;  the  king-fisher  dipped  his  beak  in  the 
stream,  and  the  dragon-fly  darted  to  and  fro  on  its  surface. 
On  the  mossy  stones  of  the  bridge  they  sat  down  together — 
Maurice  with  his  foreign-looking  straw  hat  in  his  hand,  a  rib- 
bon tied  loosely  round  his  neck  instead  of  a  cravat,  and  hia 
dark  eyes  looking  as  if  they  were  almost  too  large  for  his  pale 
and  thin  face  ;  and  Mary  with  her  neat  brown  dress,  her  white 
shawl  carefully  pinned,  her  bonnet  tied  under  her  chin  with  the 
most  English  precision,  and  projecting  over  a  face  that  liappi- 
ness  was  making  almost  beautiful. 

So  lie  seemed    to  think  ;    for   he  untied    the  strings  and 
pushed  back  that  close  bonnet,  and  gazed  upon  her  with  a 


88  .         LADY-BIRD. 

smile  that  brought  a  blush  into  her  cheek,  which,  though  no 
longer  sallow  as  in  her  childhood,  had  scarcely  more  colour 
than  a  white  cornelian.  That  gentle  Mary  Grrey  had  a  most 
loving  nature,  but  a  timid  one  also,  that  is,  in  all  that  con- 
corned  her  affections,  for  otherwise  there  was  in  her  a  store 

"  Of  Iiiii'dy  virtue?,  which  like  spirits  start 
Prom  8(iine  uDkuuwn  abyss  within  the  heart." 

But  she  had  no  confidence  in  her  own  powers  of  pleasing ;  her 
qualities  were  of  the  sort  that  every  one  else  could  appreciate 
better  than  their  possessor.  Maurice's  affection,  or  rather  her 
own  love  for  him,  was  part  and  parcel  of  her  being.  He  had 
returned  from  Italy  essentially  improved  in  health,  and  far 
handsomer  —  at  least  in  her  eyes  —  than  she  had  expected. 
His  was  certainly  not  the  id'6al  of  manly  beauty,  but  there 
was  something  ideal  in  it.  His  complexion  was  transparent ; 
there  was  a  pensive  expression  in  his  face  when  he  was  grave, 
and  a  joyousness  when  he  was  pleased,  that  were  very  attrac- 
tive. His  forehead  was  like  marble,  except  when  a  sudden 
flush  suffused  his  temples.  His  figure  was  slight,  his  voice 
low  and  gentle  ;  but  now  and  then  a  sudden  transport  of  an- 
ger or  of  emotion  would  convulse  the  almost  feminine  beauty 
of  his  features.  It  was  like  a  stoi*m  on  the  Mediterranean, — 
rising  in  an  instant  and  subsiding  again  with  inconceivable 
rapiflity. 

Mary's  presence  was  singularly  soothing  to  this  nervous 
irritability,  whicli  might  be  the  eflect  of  his  passion  for  music. 
or  more  probably  its  cause.  In  her  society  he  felt  a  repose,  a 
"bien-etre,"  which  he  hailed  with  rapture,  and  expressed — as 
he  did  whatever  he  felt — with  enthusiasm.  It  came  as  a  sur- 
prise to  her,  this  apparently  unchanged  affection  of  his,  for 
during  the  years  of  his  absence  she  had  taught  herself  not  to 
expect  it.  had  never  thought  of  the  possibility  of  loving  him 
less,  but  always  of  the  probability  that  he  might  be  changed, 
and  had  schooled  herself  into  the  belief  that  if  it  were  so  slie 
would  have  nothing  to  complain  of,  although  much  to  suffer. 
When  first  she  saw  him  again,  her  heart  involuntarily  sank 
within  her  ;  he  was  too  handsome — as  she  thought — too  cle- 
ver, and  too  happy  for  her  to  influence  his  destiny,  or  to  have 
any  hold  on  his  affections.     She  mentally  exclaimed, 

"  I  am  iiut  lair  hke  thee, 
The  very  glance  of  wliose  clear  eye 
Throw.s  round  a  linht  of  trice." 


LADY-BIRD.  39 

But  when  she  disc,  rned  the  germs  of  suifering  in  his  highly 
wrought  imagination,  in  his  febrile  organisation,  and  perceived 
that  he  was  often  tnrmeiited  by  anxiety  and  nervous  depression 
of  spirits,  then  she  saw  in  his  life  her  place,  in  his  destiny  her 
part,  and  putting  her  hand  to  the  plough,  counted  the  cost  that 
day.  and  never  looked  back. 

That  evening  hour  !  How  soothing  it  was  to  both  !  How 
full  of  sweet  memories,  and  pleasant  thoughts  of  the  future! 
Maurice  had  been  sat  home  for  some  days,  but  they  had  not 
yet  taken  a  walk  alone  together — Mary,  the  most  industrious 
of  bees,  had  not  much  time  for  strolling  ;  she  had  considered 
it  her  first  duty  on  his  return  to  look  over  his  wardrobe  as  she 
used  to  do,  and  mend  whatever  was  amiss  in  it.  He  tried  to 
laugh  or  tease  her  out  of  her  housewifely  ways,  but  without 
success — she  was  much  too  notable  a  little  person  to  be  influ- 
enced by  his  reckless  remarks  on  the  sulijoct,  and  often  assured 
him  that,  though  he  was  a  great  deal  more  famous,  he  was  not 
much  richer  than  when  he  went  away,  and  that  he  should  al- 
ways remember  that  one  stitch  in  time  saves  nine,  with  vari- 
ous other  proverbial  apliorisms  and  apposite  sayings  besides; 
so  he  was  obliged  to  content  himself  witli  walking  about  tho 
miniature  garden,  gathering  now  one  flower,  now  another, 
wliile  she  sat  under  the  thorn  tree,  working  and  singing,  and 
now  and  then  giving  utterance  to  certain  little  indignant  com- 
ments on  the  iniquities  of  foreign  laundresses  and  semp 
stresses. 

But  Sunday  was  come,  and  after  vespers  they  walked  (an 
old  habit  of  theirs)  to  the  bridge  over  the  Leigh.  She  gathered 
a  wall-flower  that  grew  in  the  crevices  of  the  arch,  and  fastened 
it  in  his  hat.  He  smiled  and  said :  "  How  sweet  it  smells ! 
An  Italian  lady  would  faint  with  its  perfume.  What  com- 
pensation for  us  in  our  chilly  climes,  though  not  flowerless 
fields,  as  Cowper  unjustly  calls  them,  that  we  need  not  be 
afraid  of  the  breath  of  these 

'  Sweet  nurslings  of  the  verual  skies, 
Bathed  in  soft  airs  and  fed  with  dew. 

And  what  a  blessing  it  is  that  home  is  all  it  is  to  us  in  spite 
of  drawbacks  in  it,  and  of  attractions  elsewhere ;  that  those 
rude  voices  that  were  singing  just  now  the  litany  we  were  so 
fond  of  as  chiklren,  have  a  charm  for  me  which  the  most  sub- 
lime strains  of  the  Sistine  Chapel  cannot  match  ;  that  these 
alders  speak  more  to  my  heart  than  the  chestnut  groves  of 


40  LADY-BIRD. 

Subiaco,  or  the  pines  of  Vallombrosa  ;  and  that  my  English 
Mary  has  more  beauty  in  my  eyes  than  the  proudest  Roman 
lady,  or  the  prettiest  girl  of  Albano.  But  you  must  see  tho^e 
sunny  climes,  my  Mary;  you  must  stand  with  me  one  day, 
and  look  from  the  deserted  gardens  of  the  Villa  Mattci  at  the 
dream-like  Campagna — you  must  kneel  with  me  in  St.  Peter's 
and  feel  the  Miserere  wringing  your  soul  with  unearthly  mel 
ody — you  must  receiA'e  on  that  gentle  little  head  of  yours  the 
wonderful  blessing  which  on  the  day  of  the  Resurrection  falls 
on  Rome  and  on  the  world.  Oh,  you  must  come  with  me  to 
that  land  of  poetry  and  of  religion,  and  learn  to  love  it  with 
the  twofold  love  of  the  Christian  and  the  artist." 

"  Maurice,  I  have  never,  even  as  a  child,  heard  the  name 
of  Rome  without  emotion,  and  to  go  there  with  you,  to  visit 
the  tombs  of  the  Apostles  and  the  relics  of  martyrs,  to  receive 
the  blessing  you  speak  of  by  your  side,  kneeling  in  some  cor- 
ner of  that  great  prostrate  city,  to  see  what  you  admire,  to 
feel  what  you  have  felt,  would  be  indeed  a  dream  of  happi- 
ness ;  but  would  it  not  be  like  digging  up  this  daisy  here,  and 
planting  it  in  the  middle  of  the  camellias  and  the  cactuses  of 
the  Woodlands  conservatory,  to  take  })ic  amongst  the  people 
and  to  the  places  where  you  have  been  lately  living  ?  " 

'■  I  know  one  person  who  would  appreciate  you,  Mary. 
Guess  who  ?  " 

"  Somebody  who  would  like  me,  Maurice  ?  Not  Emilia 
Orlandini  ?  " 

•■  0,  you  spiteful  little  girl.  I  did  not  think  you  had  as 
much  malice  in  your  composition — so  to  take  advantage  of 
my  confessions.  I  hope  you  did  not  show  tluit  letter  to 
Lady-Bird  '] " 

"  No.  I  contrived  not  to  do  so,  but  it  was  difficult.  It  is 
always  difficult  not  to  do  what  she  wishes." 

"  So  I  remember  of  old — how  she  used  to  govern  us  by 
her  smiles  and  her  tears  ;  but  I,  at  least,  am  made  of  sternei 
stuff  now-a-days." 

'•  Do  not  boast,"  said  Mary,  gaily. 

"  But  to  return  to  what  I  was  saying,"  he  continued,  '  it 
is  M.  d'Arberg  who  would  like  you." 

"  Indeed  !  I  thought  he  was  such  a  superior  person — so 
clever  and  literary,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Yes,  he  is  that,  but  what  he  is  most  particularly,  is  a 
man  of  one  purpose,  and  he  likes  simplicity  and  earnestness 
better  than  anything  else  in  life.     I  cannot  explain  it  exactly, 


LADY-BIRD.  41 

but  there  is  a  likeness  between  you :  I  suppose  you  are  both 
very  religious.  But  I  have  seen  other  people  who  were  so 
too,  but  not  just  in  the  same  way." 

'•  Maurice,  I  liked  so  much  wliat  you  said  just  now  about 
loving  Rome.     'As  a  Christian  and  an  artist.'" 

He  coloured  deeply,  and  with  his  eyes  turned  away  from 
IMary's  and  fixed  on  a  leaf  which  was  floating  down  the  stream, 
he  hurriedly  exclainied : 

'•You  must  not  think  me  better  than  I  am.  Mary,  my  faith 
has,  thank  God,  never  wavered  ;  I  admire  goodness  and  truth 
and  piety  as  much  as  ever,  and  my  soul— with  all  its  powers 
of  reason,  intelligence  and  imagination — worships  in  our  divine 
religion  the  union  of  wliatcver  is  beautiful  to  the  eye  and  ex- 
alting to  the  mind  ;  and  in  Ovcrbeck's  studio  to-day — as  in 
the  treasures  of  the  Vatican  of  yore — the  close  connexion  of 
the  Catholic  religion  with  tlie  highest  development  of  man's 
genius  is  so  clear,  that  he  who  runs  may  read.  But  to  feel  all 
this,"  he  pau.sed  and  she  added — 

"  Is  something,  but  not  all.'' 

••  The  requirements  of  our  religion,"  he  continued,  "  are 
as  stern  as  her  forms  are  attractive.  Oh  !  if  enthusiasm 
might  be  accepted  instead  of  sacrifice — if  homage  and  senti- 
ment sufficed — if  the  bowed  knee  and  the  enraptured  heart 
were  enough — who  with  the  soul  of  an  artist  would  not  be  at 
the  same  time  the  most  religious  of  men  ?  But  to  bow  the  knee, 
not  in  rapture,  but  in  humiliation — in  penance,  not  in  ecstacy 

—  to  turn   away  from  the  cup  of  pleasure But  1  shall  be 

making  my  confession  to  you,  Mary,  if  I  go  on." 

He  took  her  hand  and  drew  her  to  himself,  then,  pointing 
to  the  river,  he  earnestly  said  :  '■  Unstable  as  water.  I  cannot 
excel.  It  is  the  same  in  every  respect.  Wishes,  hopes,  reso- 
lutions, projects,  written  in  fair  characters  enough  on  the  sand, 
but  the  first  wave  washes  them  away,  and  no  token  is  left  on 
the  shore." 

''  0,  but  there  is  a  token  left,  though  you  know  it  not  your- 
self. To  try  and  to  f;iil,  to  fall  and  to  rise  again,  is  not  like 
the  stagnant  depth  of  an  immoveable  indifference.  Maurice, 
igre  is  one  thing  I  am  firmly  convinced  of,  and  I  bless  God 
for  It .  you  will  be  good,  or  you  will  be  miserable." 

"  Then,  indeed  you  must  take  care  of  my  happiness,  my 
stern  little  prophet,  or  I  shall  hardly  thank  you  for  youf 
prediction." 

At  that  moment,  there  was  a  splash  of  oars  in  the  distance 


i2  LADY-BIRD. 

and  in  a  short  time  a  small  boat  came  in  sight,  whicli  Ger- 
trude and  lier  brotlier  often  used  when  he  was  at  home,  but 
in  which,  for  the  first  time,  she  had  ventured  alone.  Her 
straw  hat  had  fallen  back  on  her  shoulders,  and  the  dark  blue 
ribbons  with  which  it  was  tied  hung  loosely  round  her  neck. 
The  exercise  had  flushed  her  cliecks  with  the  brightest  crim- 
son, and  as  she  looked  up  towards  the  bridge,  a  smile  illumined 
her  face,  like  a  ray  of  sunshine  on  a  damask  rose.  Ceasing  to 
row.  she  allowed  tlie  boat  to  float  at  pleasure,  anS^t  soon  got 
entangled  amongst  the  weeds  and  the  water-cresses. 

She  bowed  graciousl}'  and  gaily  to  Maurice  ;  and  throwing 
to  Mary,  a  handful  of  forget-me-nots,  cried  out ;  "  There,  you 
shall  have  tljem  all,  except  this  white  lotus,  which  I  must 
keep  to  astonish  Father  Liff'urd  with  it  this  evening.  But 
how  am  I  ever  to  get  out  of  this  boat?  I  feel  like  the  man 
in  Moliere's  play  : — '  Qt(e  diablc  S'msje  vcmic  /aire  clans  cctte 
galtre.'  "  In  an  instant  Maurice  was  on  the  edge  of  the  bank, 
and  swinging  himself  forward  by  the  help  of  a  branch,  he 
stepped  into  the  boat,  and  seizing  the  oars,  soon  disentangled 
it  from  the  weeds  and  set  it  afloat  again  Then  with  a  smile 
he  said, 

"Where  docs  the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  or  the  river  rather, 
please  to  be  taken  1 " 

"  By  all  means  to  the  shore.  I  have  collected  treasures 
enough  for  to-day,  and  will"not  dare  my  fate  any  longer.'' 

He  pushed  to  tlie  shore  and  threw  the  rope  to  Mary,  who 
had  come  down  to  meet  them  ;  and  jumping  out  of  the  boat, 
held  li'is  hand  out  to  Gertrude,  who.  touching  it  lightly,  with 
one  bound  sprang  on  to  the  bank.  She  stood  there  in  the  shade 
of  the  dark  alder  trees  with  her  red  Indian  shawl  carelessly 
thrown  round  her  shoulders,  and  in  her  hand  the  broad  leaves 
of  the  lotus,  which  she  used  as  a  fan.  Her  attitude  and  her 
figure  were  as  graceful  as  possible.  There  was  something  so 
free  and  yet  so  reserved  in  each  gesture  and  in  each  glance. 
She  had  a  way  that  was  peculiar  to  herself,  of  drawing  back 
her  head  while  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  of  looking  as  it  were 
from  under  her  long  eye-lashes  ;  and  the  modulations  of  her 
voice,  her  distinct  and  musical  articulation,  were  equally  un- 
common. 

'•  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  return.  Maurice,  and  I  hope  you 
lire  as  happy  to  find  yourself  in  this  counti'y  again  as  I  should 
bo  to  leave  it.     Mary  and  I  have  often  talked  about  you." 

"  And  you  once  had  the  kindness  to  write  to  me ;  I  shall 
never  forget  it." 


LADY-BIRD.  43 

"  Shall  you  stay  here  some  time  ?  "   ' 

"  Yes.     I  hope  so." 

"  Then  Ave  may  often  meet  again — good  bye,  dear  Mary — 
good  bye,  Maurice  !" 

She  drew  her  shawl  over  her  breast,  hastily  tied  the  ribbons 
of  her  hat,  and  disappeared  along  one  of  the  green  alleys  that 
tod  straight  to  the  Grange.  Maurice  drew  Mary's  arm  in  his, 
jud  they  turned  towards  the  village. 

"  Well,  now  you  have  seen  Lady-Bird  again,  what  do  you 
■iiink  of  her?  " 

"  I  don't  know  exactly, — she  docs  not  seem  proud  '' 

''0,  no  !  not  at  all  in  some  ways." 

"  She  is  like  a  picture  I  once  saw." 

"In  Italy?" 

"  Yes,  in  Venice.  It  had  that  same  eager  wistful  look 
iiat  she  has.     Is  she  happy,  Mary  ?  " 

*•  I  think  not ;  her  home  is  rather  a  gloomy  one  for  a  young 
grrl,  and  she  is  painfully  anxious  to  leave  it." 

''  I  suppose  she  is  very  clever?  " 

"  She  is  ver}'  amusing — very  droll  at  times,  and  strangely 
eloquent  at  others.     She  reads  an  immense  deal,  I  believe." 

*'  Does  she  care  for  music  ?  " 

"  She  has  a  most  beautiful  voice, — quite  a  wonderful  voice; 
bui  never  having  been  taught,  I  don't  suppose  she  sings  well 
— wluit  you  would  call  well." 

•*  She  must  be  dreadfully  bored  in  that  old  house.  I  re- 
member how  stiif  her  father  used  to  look,  and  her  mother 
always  ill,  ana  the  dear  old  priest  so  absent,  and  a  little  cross, 
too,  Bometimes.' 

''  l\ot  rcafly  cross,  I  think,  but  Lady-Bird  tries  him  by  the 
odd  things  sne  says  and  does ;  and  he  does  not  perhaps  quite 
understand  how  cored  she  is,  and  that  even  to  make  any  one 
angry  witn  her  is  a  sort  of  relief  to  the  duluess  of  her  life." 

'■  DocH  sue  come  to  see  you  often  ?  " 

"  Yes,  pretty  often ;  by  fits  and  starts.  Sometimes  she 
comes  evtry  day,  and  then  perhaps  we  are  weeks  without 
seeing  her.'' 

"  Does  she  never  go  out  into  society,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  No.     I  Qo  nut  believe  she  has  made  a  single  acquaintance 
in  the  neiglibcurhood.     Nobody  ever  dines  at  LifiFord  Grange, 
I  hear,  except  tac  agent  or  the  doctor,  and  that  very  seldom." 
"  Then  she  I'sttv  no  admirers,  I  suppose." 
"  0  dear  no,  i  ihould  think  not,  unless " 


44  LADY-BIRD. 

"  Unless  what  ?  " 

"  Unless  Mr.  Mark  Aplcy  was  one.  He  is  often  riding 
about  here,  and  going  backwards  and  forwards  on  the  road 
between  the  Grange  and  Stonehouseleigh,  tliat  is.  when  he  is 
at  home,  which  is  only  at  one  time  of  the  year.  When  we 
meet  him  he  looks  at  her  as  if  he  thought  her  very  pretty, 
but  he  has  never  been  introduced  to  her." 

"  And  how  does  she  look  on  those  occasions?  " 

"  Half  proudly  and  half  shyly,  as  if  not  sorry  to  be  admir- 
ed, and  yet  impatient  at  being  watched." 

'■  Here  are  her  flowers,"  Maurice  said,  as  they  entered  the 
little  sitting-room  of  the  cottage,  "  shall  I  put  them  into  this 
vase  ?  "  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  arranged  them 
in  such  a  graceful  way  that  Mary  stopped  to  admire  it. 

"  Here  is  your  pianoforte  arrived  at  last,"  she  said.  "  Now 
I  shall  hear  some  of  the  things  that  fine  ladies  and  great  mu- 
sicians liave  admired." 

"  The  fine  ladies  more  than  the  great  musicians,  I  am 
afraid.  I  was  the  fashion  amongst  them,  and  they  made  much 
of  me  and  of  my  songs,  but  even  in  my  art — which  I  love 
with  passion — I  ani  too  unstable  to  excel." 

He  ran  his  hand  over  the  kej'S,  and  hummed  a  tune  which 
had  something  of  tl)e  wildness  of  a  Neapolitan  air,  with  the 
tenderness  of  a  German  melody. 

"  How  pretty  that  is  !"    M;.iry  exclaimed. 

"  It  is  my  '  Lady-bird,' "  he  said,  "  the  song  I  wrote  to  you 
about,  which  I  composed  last  year  at  Naples.  They  used  to 
encore  it  every  night." 

"  No  wonder,  for  it  is  gay,  and  yet  there  is  something  that 
touches  one  iu  it,  something  of  sadness,  which  I  suppose  must 
be  the  perfection  of  music." 

"  Mary,"  he  said  in  a  moment,  as  they  still  sat  together  at 
the  pianoforte,  "  I  have  thought  of  a  plan  which,  if  I  can  car- 
ry it  into  efiect,  will  enable  me  to  remain  here  several  months 
without  being  a  burthen  on  dear  mother,  and  which  may  also 
be  of  use  to  me  when  I  settle  in  London.  I  think  I  might 
give  lessons  in  the  neighbourhood.  Don't  you  think  it  would 
answer  ?  I  did  so  at  Florence  one  year."  Mary  smiled  her 
assent,  and  Mrs.  Redniond  was  consulted.  She  produced  a 
bit  of  paper,  and  had  soon  written  in  pencil  the  names  of  sev- 
eral young  ladies  and  gentlemen  whom  she  sanguinely  supposed 
would  be  sure  to  taki;  lessons.  Tlie  fact  was,  tjiat  there  was 
iiG  music  master  in  that  part  of  the  country,  and  the  deficiency 


LADY-niRn,  45 

had  often  been  regretted  b;,  Miss  Apley,  who  was  on  all  occa« 
sions  Mrs.  Redmond's  oracle. 

"Don't  you  think,  niothei,  that  you  might  call  on  Miss 
Apley  to-uiorrow,  and  tell  her  diat  Maurice  means  to  give 
lessons?  She  wished  particular!;)  to  see  you,  I  know,  about 
the  work  at  the  school,  and  you  know  you  don't  dislike  paying 
her  a  visit." 

'•  Yes,  Mary  darling,  but  I  am  a  littiv.  ^oolish  about  asking 
a  favour." 

Maurice  coloured,  and  Mary  with  hei  /][uick  perception 
keenly  felt  that  he  was  annoyed  at  the  expression  her  mother 
had  used,  and  instantly  exclaimed, 

"  But,  dearest  mother,  do  you  know  that  T  can  hardly  con- 
sider it  as  a  favour.  Maurice's  talent  is  not  a  common  one, 
and  the  advantage  of  taking  lessons  from  liim  in  this  out-of- 
the-way  place,  is  a  benefit  received  more  than  a'  favour  con- 
ferred." 

'■  But  perhaps  she  does  not  know  that  he  has  so  much 
talent,  dear,  and  if  I  say  so  she  will  think  it  is  all  my  par- 
tiality." 

"  0  for  Heaven's  sake,  mother,"  Maurice  impatiently  ex- 
claimed, "  say  nothing  at  all  about  me.  I  will  speak  myself 
to  Father  Lifford.  But  whatever  you  do,  don't  puff  me  ;  I 
can't  endure  that." 

He  played  a  noisy  bravura,  which  put  a  stop  to  further 
conversation  ;  and  thoughts  of  Italy,  of  the  women  who  had 
flattered  him,  of  the  friends  who  had  applauded  him,  of  the 
way  in  which  genius  was  considered  there  as  superior  to  any 
other  distinctions,  and  the  footing  of  intimacy  on  which  he 
had  been  with  persons  of  the  highest  rank  rose  to  his  mind, 
and  made  him  silent  and  abstracted  during  the  rest  of  the 
evening 

He  compared  these  recollections  with  the  aspect  of  the 
little  room  in  which  they  were  sitting,  and  for  the  first  time 
disadvantageously  ;  for,  whether  from  the  love  of  change  and 
contrast,  which  have  great  charms  for  persons  of  his  disposi- 
tion, or  from  affection  for  Mary,  the  very  soberness  and  tho- 
roughly English  character  of  his  childhood's  home  had  been 
agreeable  to  him.  But  now  he  thought  again  of  the  palaces, 
the  villas,  the  ilex  avenues,  the  orange-gardens  of  Italy  :  and, 
as  he  looked  at  Mary  quietly  working  at  the  table  by  the  light 
of  a  single  tallow  candle,  she  did  not  seem  to  him  less  pleas- 
ing than  before,  but  he  said  to  himself,  ''  Yes,  I  shall  trans- 


48  LADT-BIRD. 

plant  you,  my  English  daisy,  to  that  bright  land.  Its  fervid 
sunshine  will  animate  that  somewhat  too  calm  expression.  Ita 
influences  will  call  forth  all  the  feeling  and  the  intelligence 
which  this  passionless  existence  would  end  by  stifling.  When 
I  produce  my  first  opera  at  the  Scala  or  the  Fenice,  how  that 
pale  face  will  flush  with  excitement,  how  that  breast — which 
is  now  breathing  so  calmly — will  throb  with  emotion,  when  she 
will  have  to  witness  the  failure  or  hail  the  success  of  what 
costs  me  almost  more  than  my  life's  blood  ! — and  those  eyes, 
that  always  seem  to  turn  more  readily  to  Heaven  than  to 
earth,  will  they  not  flash  with  triumph  and  sparkle  with  de- 
light, if  the  enthusiastic  cries  and  the  wild  applause  of  an 
Italian  audience  call  on  the  successful  maestro  to  come  and 
receive  the  meed  of  praise  which  they  so  well  know  how  to 
bestow  ?  0,  my  quiet,  gentle  Mary,  you  must  drink  with  me 
of  that  bewildering  cup — even  though  you  should  have  to 
share  my  sufferings  too." 

Ten  o'clock  struck,  and  Mrs.  Redmond  and  Mary  folded 
up  their  work  and  prepared  to  go  to  bed.  As  Maurice  fol- 
lowed them  into  the  passage,  he  called  Mary  to  the  garden 
door,  and  putting  his  hand  on  her  arm,  he  said  in  a  whisper, 
'•  Which  had  you  rather  be,  intensely  happy  at  times,  and 
very  miserable  at  others,  or  never  know  the  extremes  of  hu- 
man bliss  and  woe?"  She  looked  surprised  and  almost  pained 
at  the  question,  but  after  an  instant's  hesitation  answered, 
timidly  raising  her  eyes  to  his,  "  I  suppose  that  I  have  already 
been  too  happy  not  to  have  to  suffer  in  proportion  ;  but  come 
what  may — a  higher  joy  or  a  deeper  grief,  I  care  not  if  the 
last  reach  me  alone,  and  the  first  is  shared  with  you." 

"Angel  of  goodness  ! "  he  fervently  exclaimed,  "and  I, 
on  the  contrary,  was  wishing  just  now  to  force  thee  to  partake 
the  torments  of  my  feverish  existence.  Keep  thy  divine  peace 
of  heart,  my  Mary,  and  Heaven  forbid  that  in  my  wayward 
folly  I  should  ever  seek  to  disturb  it."  "  Why  should  you,  in 
deed  ?  "  she  ejaculated  with  unaffected  surprise.  He  smiled 
but  felt  a  little  disappointed.  Why,  he  could  scarcely  tell 
She  did  not  guess  his  thoughts  ;  how  could  she  1  But  othert. 
had  done  so,  and  life  becomes  flat  and  stale  when  everything 
has  to  be  explained,  and  he  could  not  always  explain  himself 
even  to  himself;  and  a  cloud  was  on  his  brow  as  he  shut  him- 
self up  in  his  room,  and — flinging  open  the  window — he  threw 
himself  on  his  bed,  and  snatching  up  a  pencil  and  paper  he 
began  to  compose,  but  not  music.     His  mind  was  not  tuned  to 


LADY-BIRD.  47 

harmony  just  then,  but  he  wrote  rambling  verses,  and  went  to 
sleep  with  some  unfinished  lines  iu  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  V 


«  Noble  et  Ugt-re  elle  folatre, 
Et  riicvbe  que  foulent  ses  pas. 
Sous  le  iioids  de  son  ]iie<l  d'albiitre, 
8e  courbe  et  ne  se  brtee  pas. 
Sur  ses  traits,  dont  le  doux  ovale 
Borne  I'ensenible  sracieux, 
Les  couleurs  que  la  nue  dtale 
80  fiindeut  piiur  charmer  les  yeux. 
A  1.1  (lonrfire  qui  tcint  sa  joue, 
On  dirait  ciue  1  aube  s'y  joue; 
Son  front  IrgiT  sV'liive  et.  plane 
Sur  un  eou  flexible,  clance, 
Coinnie  sur  le  Hot  diaphane 
Un  cygne  molleinent  borcts." 


"  Music  is  the  food  of  love." 


Lamaktink. 

Shakespeare. 


How  strange  it  is  that  people  think  it  worth  while  to  mnko 
the  best  of  themselves  to  themselves,  to  Cijuivocate  with  their 
own  hearts,  while  all  the  time  they  know  it  is  of  no  use — that 
it  is  the  shallowest  of  deeeptions — that  even  a  Queen's  speech, 
or  a  ministerial  harangue  are  not  more  devoid  of  any  preten- 
sions to  sincerity,  than  their  special  pleadings  at  the  bar  of 
their  own  understandings.  But  still  the  inward  and  intimate 
sham  is  carried  on,  and  doubtless,  the  thief  and  the  assassin 
have  an  internal  advocate  who  presses  for  an  acquittal,  even 
while  the  dagger  is  sharpening  and  the  booty  secured.  There 
are  some,  indeed,  who  never  appear  to  commune  with  them- 
selves, whose  minds  are  like  railway  travelling,  never  stopiiiiif 
but  at  certain  stations,  never  looking  beyond  a  certain  ter- 
minus. 

Mr.  Lifford  might  have  been  of  this  number,  and  if  so.  his 
mental  line  of  road  must  have  lain  through  the  dullest  And 
dreariest  of  intellectual  regions.  It  had  gone  on  its  way  crush- 
ing and  extinguishing  in  himself  and  in  others  everything  that 
gives  light  and  joy  to  existence.  Whether,  in  the  language 
of  St  Paul,  his  thoughts  ever  accused  and  excused  one  another 
was  doubtful.  Perhaps  he  was  too  essentially  despotic  to 
allow  even  of  inward  remonstrance,  and   the  rebellion  of  his 


48  LADY-BIUD. 

own  conscience,  if  it  ever  broke  out,  was  put  down  by  the  iroii 

rigidity  of  liis  will. 

But  in  liis  daughter's  character  there  were  other  elements 
at  work  besides  tliat  same  will^  which  she  had  inherited  from 
him.  Some  of  the  tenderness  of  her  mother's  character  was 
mixed  witli  it.  This  had  seldom  been  called  forth,  but  a 
gleam  of  it  was  now  and  then  visible  which  took  by  surprise 
those  who  were  accustomed  to  her  reckless  moods,  and  her 
stubborn  resolution.  She  had  one  of  those  natures  that  could 
not  be  governed  by  ordinary  means,  and — like  the  Spartan 
boy — she  would  have  suifcred  a  thousand  tortures  before  sho 
yielded  to  threats  or  submitted  to  violence.  Two  or  three 
times,  between  the  age  of  childhood  and  that  at  which  she 
had  now  arrived,  she  had  come  into  open  collision  with  her 
father.  Once,  in  a  paroxysm  of  passion,  an  imprecation 
escaped  her  lips,  which  the  instant  it  was  uttered  territicd  her 
to  that  degree,  that  slie  gave  a  scream  of  horror,  and  fell  on 
her  knees  before  him.  If  he  had  opened  his  aim.?,  .=hc  would 
probably  have  loved  him  from  that  moment  with  all  the  ■energj' 
of  her  strange  character.  Had  he  been  moved  to  snger  or  t( 
indignation,  she  would  have  continued  to  sue  for  pardon  and 
reconciliation  ;  but  he  left  her  with  a  sn-eer,  ani  bhe  remained 
alone  with  her  remorse  and  her  anger,  and  neither  could  master 
the  other,  till  some  days  afterwards  in  confe^^ion — that  secret 
arena  where  so  many  fierce  battles  with  self  are  fought — the 
])ioud  spirit  yielded  ;  and,  after  shedding  t('rrents  of  tears, 
pale  with  emotion,  she  went  straight  froni  the  chapel  to  her 
father's  room,  implored  a  forgiveness  wh.cli  \t'as  coldly  granted, 
returned  to  the  feet  of  one  who  as  his  Lor<l's  representative 
was  always  kind  though  at  other  times  stern,  and  who,  after 
absolving  and  blessing  her,  dismissed  her  in  peace. 

Good  was  it  for  Gertrude  that  she  should  have  known 
wdiat  such  a  conquest  eifects,  what  such  a  moment  is.  She 
never  forgot  it.  There  are  seeds  sometimes  sown  that  lie  for 
long  years  under  a  hardened  surface,  but  the  rain  may  some 
day  fall,  the  sun  may  one  day  shine,  and  the  harvest  may  be 
reaped. 

There  was  one  element  in  Gertrude's  character  which  re- 
sembled neither  father  nor  mother,  and  that  was  a  wild  gaiety 
— which  was  particularly  attractive  in  one  as  beautiful,  as 
naturally  clever,  and  as  original  as  she  was.  It  was  almost 
impossible  for  any  one  to  resist  its  fascination.  Even  Father 
LilTord — who  thought  it  bordered  on  levity,  and  conceived  it 


LADY-BIRD.  49 

(0  be  rather  a  point  of  duty  to  snub  bcr — could  not  help  at 
times  feeling  its  influence,  and  when  she  succeeded  in  making 
him  smile  it  put  lier  in  good  humour  for  the  rest  of  the  day, 
as  she  used  to  tell  Mary  Grey. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  in  so  dull  an  existence, 
and  with  such  a  craving  for  change  and  amusement  of  any 
&ort,  that  the  return  of  an  old  playfellow  who  formerly  con- 
tributed so  much  to  her  enjoyment  should  have  bceu  indilfer- 
ont  to  her,  or  that  she  should  not  have  been  ready  to  renew 
an  acquaintance  which  had  once  given  her  so  much  pleasure. 
His  letters  to  Mary  had  interested  her  imagination ;  she  felt 
curious  to  see  how  far  he  was  in  love  with  her  quiet  friend, 
and  whether  her  feelings  for  him  had  an}'  tinge  of  romance, 
or  partook  of  what  Gertrude  considered  the  common-place 
nature  of  her  character,  for  thus  she  estimated  one  of  the 
most  ?/«common-])lace  persons  in  the  world,  one  of  those  rare 
self-forgetting  natures  that  have  more  feeling  than  passion, 
more  heroism  than  courage,  and  more  tenderness  than  sensi- 
bility. 

A  day  or  two  after  the  meeting  at  the  bridge  she  sent  her 
maid  to  tell  Mary  that  she  meant  to  sketch  that  afternoon  in 
Oakland  Chase,  and  that  if  she  had  nothing  else  to  do  it 
would  be  very  kind  of  her  to  meet  her  there,  as  it  was  some 
time  since  they  had  seen  each  other  in  comfort.  The  message 
was  delivered,  and  the  expected  assent  given,  and  at  the  same 
spot  where,  about  three  years  before,  tliis  story  opened,  Ger- 
trude and  Mary  were  again  sitting — the  first  drawing  with 
tmtaught  skill  the  old  trees  which  had  been  the  favourite 
haunts  of  their  childhood,  and  the  other  busy  with  some  plaiu 
work  which  she  had  brouirht  with  her. 

The  summer  was  far  advanced — there  were  no  flowers  on 
the  grass  around  them,  and  the  birds  had  ceased  their  songs, 
but  the  rich  foliage  and  deep  shade  of  the  forests  were  in  all 
the  glory  of  maturity.  Gertrude  had  expected  that  Maurice 
would  join  them  ;  but  he  did  not  do  so,  and  she  felt  disap- 
pointed. Mary's  conversation  seemed  to  her  more  uninter- 
esting than  usual,  and  at  last  she  abruptly  asked, 

'•  Where  is  Maurice  ?  What  does  he  do  with  himself  du- 
ring these  long  summer  days  ?  " 

"  He  is  reading  out  there  by  the  stile,"  Mary  said.  "  He 
walked  with  me  as  far,  and  then  said  he  should  be  in  our  way, 
and  that  he  would  amuse  himself  with  his  book  till  I  came 
back." 


50  LADY-BIRD. 

"  But  what  nonsense  that  was  to  tliink  he  should  be  in  our 
way.  I  hope  he  does  not  mean  to  avoid  me,  Mary.  Docs  he 
remember  what  good  friends  we  used  to  be  ?" 

'•  I  believe,  dear  Lady-Bird,  that  is  one  of  the  reasons  that 
he  feels  shy  with  you  now.  He  says  he  cannot  expect  that 
you  will  consider  him  as  an  old  friend." 

''  And  why  not — I  should  like  to  know  ?  Have  I  so  many 
friends  that  I  am  likely  to  be  ungracious  to  the  only  ones  I 
have  known  in  childhood?  I  have  observed,  Mary,  that  you 
are  sometimes  inclined  to  be  formal  and  ceremonious  with 
me.  and  it  bores  me  to  death.  0  yes,  to  death,"  she  repeated, 
with  her  pencil  on  her  lips,  and  peeping  into  Mary's  bonnet, 
who  was  shaking  her  head  and  smiling.  "  What  a  pity  it  is," 
she  exclaimed,  "  that  we  cannot  make  an  exchange  !  " 

"  What  exchange,  Lady-Bird?  " 

"  Of  our  homes,  I  mean — I  should  have  been  very  happy 
at  the  cottage,  and  you  would  have  been  a  sort  of  model 
young  lady  at  Lifford  Grange.  You  would  never  have  said 
or  done  a  foolish  thing,  and  have  looked  as  steady  and  demure 
as  any  of  the  family  pictures.  As  it  is,  my  uncle  says  that 
you  are  a  pattern  of  perfection,  and  then  sighs  and  shrugs  his 
shoulders  a.s  he  looks  at  me.  Don't  you  wish  that  you  were 
Miss  Lifford  ?  Is  it  not  a  very  enviable  destiny  to  spend 
one's  life  at  Lifford  Grange — a  sort  of  secular  cloister,  of  the 
Carthusian  order,  for  we  never  talk  without  necessity." 

"  You  are  not  following  the  rule  now^  I  suppose,"  Mary 
said.  '•  But,  dear  Lady-Bird,  I  am  not  sure  that  you  would 
find  my  life  very  gay,  though  /feel  it  to  be  happy." 

"  Why,  it  must  be  a  little  amusing  to  have  a  lover,  which 
will  never  happen  to  me.  You  would  never  have  thought  of 
it,  if  it  had  not  come  in  your  way,  but  be  candid — is  it  not 
amusing  ?  " 

'•  Mary  coloured,  and  shook  her  head  again — "  Now,  mind 
your  drawing,  Lady-Bird,  and  do  not  talk  in  that  manner" 

"  Well,  I  will  not,  if  you  will  go  and  tell  Maurice  that  he 
is  not  to  keep  out  of  my  way,  and  fancy  that  we  are  not  to  be 
Iriends  as  we  used  to  be." 

"  I  will  go,  ir  you  will  promise  not  to  talk  as  you  did  just 
now.  especially  before  him." 

'•  0  no,  I  won't — go  your  ways,  Mary  Grey.  Is  it  not  a 
'' (loiice  V'iulcnce^  to  send  you  on  such  an  errand?  In  the 
meantime  I  will  finish  this  old  oak,  and  you  shall  have  it  as  a 
reward." 


LADY-BIRU.  61 

Mary  walked  quietly  away  down  one  of  the  avenues  of  the 
Chase,  and  Gertrude,  watching  her  as  she  disappeared  amongst 
the  trees,  said  to  herself — •'  She  is  like  the  '  Bonny  Kilnieny 
who  ga'ed  up  the  glen,'  pure  as  pure  could  be.  There  is  no 
one  so  good  as  Mary,  I  do  believe.  She  does  not  seem  to 
care  much  about  Maurice,  but  I  sliall  know  more  of  that 
when  I  have  seen  them  together."  And  this  last  word  put- 
ting her  in  mind  of  a  pretty  song  that  she  hfld  once  learnt, 
and  tliat  began — "  We  have  been  friends  together,  in  sunsliiue 
and  in  shade," — she  warbled  it  at  intervals,  when  not  too 
much  engrossed  by  her  drawing. 

When  Mary  r(!turncd.  and  3Iaurice  with  her,  she  greeted 
uim  with  a  playful  kindness  that  made  Iiim  at  once  feel  at  his 
case;  and  sitting  down  on  the  stump  of  a  tree  opposite  to  the 
one  she  (iccupied,  his  heightened  colour  subsided,  and  his  nnin- 
uer,  whicii  had  been  a  little  stiff  at  first,  became  natural  and 
animated.  She  asked  him  questions  which  drew  from  him 
some  lively  descriptions  of  places  and  of  persons  abroad,  and 
the  bright  smile  with  which  she  responded  to  anything  that 
amused'  her,  carried  him  back  to  the  days  when  to  relate  a 
story  that  would  make  Lady-Bird  laugh  or  cry  was  the  height 
of  his  ambition.  He  was  surprised  to  find  how  much  slie  knew 
about  pictures  and  statues,  poets  and  musicians. — how  well  ac- 
quainted she  was  with  the  history  and  the  literature  of  Italy, 
and  with  what  rapid  changes  of  manner  she  seemed  transform- 
ed in  an  instant  from  a  wayward  cliild  into  an  eloquent  wo- 
man ;  and  then  again,  when  apparently  most  in  earnest,  would 
break  suddenly  off'  into  some  strain  of  fun  and  nonsense. 

The  sort  of  conversation  that  established  itself  between 
them  was  entirely  new  to  Mary  ;  it  interested  but  puzzled 
her.  Maurice  had  been  living  a  great  deal  in  society  abroad, 
and  had  acquired  a  readiness  and  fluency  of  language  which 
nothing  but  tlie  habit  of  conversation  can  give,  except  in  one 
as  naturally  gifted  as  (jrertrude  was.  Her  singular  intelligence 
made  her  instinctively  guess  what  others  learnt  by  degrees. 
She  would  have  made  a  speech  in  Parliament,  or  preached  a 
sermon,  or  acted  a  play,  or  harangued  a  mob  if  called  upon  to 
do  so  ;  nothing  came  amiss  to  her,  but  solitude  and  constraint. 
She  was  very  (juick  also  in  discerning  the  characters  of  others, 
except  when  baffled  by  one  of  such  extraordinary  simplicity 
as  Mary's.  Maurice  she  judged  at  once.  '•  More  talent  than 
ability;  more  ardour  than  vigour;  more  imagination  than 
sense,  and  seubibility  than  feeling :  an  abundance  of  words  at 


ti2  LADY-BIRD. 

his  command,  and  a  sufficient  amount  of  thought  to  turn  that 
abundance  to  account."  This  view  of  the  young  artist  Avas 
rapidly  sketched  in  her  mind,  as  she  sat  conversing  with  him. 
with  all  the  lauser-cdkr  that  was  habitual  to  her,  and  the  ani- 
mation which  a  new  amusement  called  forth. 

The  drawing  was  not  finished  till  the  sun  was  setting,  and 
Jane  had  appeared  to  escort  Gertrude  home.  She  gave  it  to 
Mary,  as  she  had  promised.  It  was  the  old  hollow  tree  in 
which  they  used  to  act  "  O'Connor's  child."  That  evening 
Mary  spoke  twice  to  Maurice  without  attracting  his  notice. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  sketch. 

"  I  do  not  think  M.  d'Arberg  -would  like  her   as  much  as 
you,"  he  said  at  last,  as  if  he  were  answering  a  Lpestion. 
She  laughed,  and  said  "  Who  ?  " 
"  Lady-13ird.      She  would  not  suit  him,  I  think.      She  is  too 
like  Undine." 

"Who  is  Undine— an  Italian  you  know?" 
"  0  no,  dear  Mary ;   she  only  lives  in  Fairy-land.      Lady- 
Bird  knows  all  about  her,  I  am  sure." 

"  She  knows  a  great  deal,"  Mary  said  with  a  sigh.  Her 
gravity  made  Maurice  laugh. 

'•  Not  how  to  make  a  home  as  happy  as  you  would,  my  dar- 
ling Mary." 

"  She  might  if  she  hvcd  her  home.  It  is  so  easy  to  make 
tliosc  we  love  happy — that  is,  if  they  love  us,"  she  timidly 
added.  He  pushed  aside  the  oak-tree,  and  drew  his  chair 
close  to  hers,  and  told  her  the  story  of  his  opera— rthe  great 
work  he  was  meditating;  and  she  listened  to  it  for  the  tenth 
time,  as  if  it  had  been  the  first. 

When  that  evening  the  clock  struck  ten,  and  with  a  Cin- 
dcrcUa-like  punctuality  she  got  up  and  folded  her  work,  he  said 
to  her,  gaily,  '•  You  are  worth  a  hundred  Lady-Birds,  Mary  !" 
Slie  put  her  hand  on  his  mouth  ;  he  kissed  it,  and  whispered, 
"  You  will  not  mind,  will  you,  if  I  play  for  an  hour  or  two 
longer?  Dear  mother  does  not,  I  know;  she  is  too  deaf  to 
hear  it  upstairs." 

"  I  do  mind, — you  ought  to  go  to  bed  and  rest ;  you  will 
wake  like  a  ghost  to-morrow.  Like  the  ghost  in  the  last  scene 
of  the  opera." 

The  opera  had  now  become  a  conspicuous  point  in  hei 
thoughts.  He  did  not  rehearse  it  oftener  in  imagination  than 
she  di<l.  Never  having  been  in  her  life  in  a  theatre,  she  had 
a  vcrv  vague   idea  of   a  dramatic  performance ;    but  it  was  - 


I.ADV-BIKD.  63 

enough  for  her  that  it  was  his  dream  his  work,  Iiis  object ;  the 
story  was  founded  on  their  favourite  balhid  of  "  O'Connor's 
child,"  and  she  could  fancy,  she  said,  how  beautiful  it  would  be 
to  see  it  all  acted,  as  they  used  to  act  it,  and  at  the  same  time 
to  hear  his  music  telling  in  another  way  all  they  used  to  feel 
about  it. 

As  she  lay  awake  in  her  room  that  night,  listening  to  the 
sounds  of  his  playing  below,  and  watching  the  light  clouds 
quickly  passing  over  the  heavens,  she  felt  angry  with  herself 
that  the  words,  "  You  arc  worth  a  hundred  Lady-Birds," 
seemed  to  mix  with  the  music,  and  to  be  written  in  the  skies. 

In  about  a  fortnight's  time,  IMaurice  had  obtained  two  or 
three  pupils  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  by  degrees  he  b(;canie 
known  ;  his  reputation  established  itself,  and  he  grew  to  be 
somewhat  of  a  lion  in  Lancashire.  He  was  sometimes  invited 
to  some  of  the  country-houses  where  he  gave  lessons.  His  per- 
fectly gentleman-like  manners,  his  good  looks,  his  knowledge  of 
French  and  Italian,  and  his  really  beautiful  playing,  made  him 
a  general  favourite  wherever  lie  went.  On  Sunday  he  always 
played  the  organ  at  the  Catholic  chapel  at  Stonehouseleigh  ; 
and  strangers  used  often  to  come  there  to  hear  the  exquisite 
music  with  which  he  accompanied  the  different  parts,  and  filled 
up  the  pauses  of  the  service.  To  Mary  it  sounded  like  the 
strains  of  Heaven  itself,  and  her  heart  and  her  love  were  both 
so  pure,  that  there  was  nothing  unworthy  of  the  place  or  of 
the  hour  in  the  joy  that  overflowed  that  heart,  as,  with  her  face 
buried  in  her  hands,  she  felt  as  if  he  were  translating  into 
melody  the  speechless  adoration  which  was  rising  from  her 
own  soul. 

Gertrude  always  came  there  for  vespers, — sometimes  with 
Father  Lifi'ord,  or  else  with  her  maid  ;  and  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  service,  as  the  congregation  dispersed,  she  usually 
waited  in  the  churchyard  while  he  was  in  the  sacristy,  or  Jane 
was  lingering  with  her  friends  from  the  village.  Her  seat 
was  a  tombstone  near  the  gate,  and  the  simple  inscription 
upon  it,  "  Eequiescat  in  pace,"  contrasted  with  the  expression 
of  her  face.  Strangers  sometimes  remarked  how  beautiful, 
but  how  restless  it  was.  They  would  have  wished  to  say  to 
her,  ''  Rest  in  peace,''  but  that  time  was  not  come.  Whatever 
power  religion  exerted  over  her  tended  to  a  struggle,  and  interior 
strife  was  the  result  of  salutary  impressions.  Better  for  her 
that  it  was  so  ;  the  best  of  of  such  characters  and  intellects 
asj  hers  is  the  difficulty  they  find  in  self-deception.     They  err, 


54  LADY-BIRD. 

they  offend,  the  will  is  stubborn,  and  the  heart  undisciplined 
— but  they  were  gone  too  deep  into  themselves,  and  too  far  be- 
yond themselves  to  act  the  part  of  the  false  prophet  to  their 
own  souls,  and  to  cry  out  "  Peace  where  there  is  no  peace." 

One  day  as  they  were  walking  back  from  the  chapel,  Ger- 
trude asked  Mary  with  a  look  of  great  interest,  if  it  was  true 
that  Maurice  had  been  giving  lessons  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  on  Mary's  answering  in  the  affirmative  exclaimed,  "  Then 
I  shall  take  some,  that  is," — turning  to  him,  for  he  just  over- 
took them  at  tliat  moment.--'  that  is,  if  you  will  be  kind 
enough  to  undertake  a  beginner  who  has  never  had  any  regu- 
lar instruction,  whose  fingers  are  as  stiff  as  her  voice  is  un- 
manaL^oable.  I  sliall  try  your  patience  dreadfully,  but  will 
you?" 

•  He  coloured,  bowed,  but  did  not  look  pleased.  She  re- 
marked it,  and  with  her  usual  impetuosity,  turned  to  Mary 
and  said — 

"Why  is  he  so  cross  about  it?  Don't  you  like  to  teach 
me,  Maurice  ?  " 

'•  Yes,"  he   answered,  colouring  still  more  deepl3^  "  but  I 

cannot  bear "     He    broke  off    suddenly,  and  added,  "  I 

mean  that  I  do  not  know  if  I  have  an  hour  to  spare  that  will 
suit  you.     Wlien  would  you  wish  me  to  come  ?  " 

"  When  could  you  ?  " 

"  At  five  o'clock." 

"  Yes — at  five  o'clock — three  times  a  week — that  will  be 
delightful  !  That  hour  is  just  the  one  that  will  suit  mamma. 
Do  you  know,  Mary,  that  music  is,  I  find,  one  of  the  few  things 
that  mamma  cares  about.  When  I  asked  her  about  taking 
lessons,  and  told  her  that  Maurice  was  giving  them,  she 
seemed  quite  pleased,  and  said  that  the  pianoforte  should  be 
put  in  the  room  next  to  hers  ;  and  tliat  when  she  was  well 
enough,  the  folding-doors  sliould  be  opened,  and  she  would 
like  to  listen.  She  thinks  it  will  do  her  good  to  hear  a  little 
music.  She  has  never  heard  any  since  she  left  Spain 
■ — except  the  little  songs  you  used  to  come  sometimes  and  sing 
to  her  when  you  were  a  boy,"  she  added,  turning  to  him. 

Maurice  smiled  in  a  constrained  manner,  and  asked  which 
day  he  sliould  come.  It  was  settled  for  the  next  Tuesday, 
and  he  took  liis  leave  with  a  cloud  on  his  brow. 

When  Mary  asked  him  afterwards — with  an  unconscious 
uneasiness  which  she  could  hardly  define,  and  which  she  would 
not  perhaps  have  felt  had  he  gladly  accepted  Gertrude  as  a 


LADY-BIRD.  55 

pupil — wlietlier  it  annoyed  liim  to  give  lessons  at  the  Grange, 
lie  answered  impatiently  :  "  You  do  not  suppose,  do  you.  that  it 
is  pleasant  to  be  treated  as  a  friend,  and  to  be  considered  and 
paid  as  a  music-master?"  She  felt  depressed,  but  said  it 
gave  her  much  pleasure  to  think  that  his  playing  might  be  an 
enjoyment  to  Mrs.  Lifford  who  had  so  few  pleasant  moments 
in  her  life,  and  that  it  would  bring  Gertrude  into  frequent 
companionship  with  her  mother,  which  might  prove  an  inesti- 
mable comfort  to  both.  lie  assented,  but  remained  restless 
and  disturbed  during  the  remainder  of  the  day. 

But  after  the  first  lesson  had  been  given,  his  annoyance 
seemed  to  have  passed  away,  and  he  told  Mrs.  lledmond  and 
Mary,  how  strange  it  had  seemed  to  him  to  find  Mrs.  Lifford 
again  on  that  same  couch  where  he  used  to  see  her  when  a 
boy — only  still  paler  and  thinner  than  he  remembered  her 
then.  "  There  she  lies  wrapped  up  in  shawls,  and  propped  up 
by  pillows — her  face  so  white  and  wan  that  it  looks  as  if  one 
could  see  through  it,  and  her  eyes  appearing  unnaturally  large 
and  bright.  After  I  had  given  Lady-Bird  some  instructions, 
she  asked  me  to  play  something  very  gently,  as  she  thought 
her  mother  would  like  it.  I  thought,  at  that  minute,  of  Mo- 
zart's Agnus  Dei,  and  I  played  it  very  softly,  but  with  a  great 
deal  of  expression.  I  never  in  my  life  tried  so  much  to  play 
■well — not  when  I  was  most  anxious  to  make  an  effect  at  a 
concert  as  I  did  then  to  please  that  pale  woman  who  had  not 
heard  any  music  for  sixteen  years.  When  I  had  gone  on  for 
about  twenty  minutes,  varying  the  air  with  a  few  simple  chords, 
I  left  oif,  and  looking  through  the  door  towards  her  couch  I 
saw  that  she  had  covered  her  face  with  her  thin  transparent 
hands,  and  that  large  tears  were  rolling  through  her  fingers. 
She  called  Lady-Bird  in  a  faint  voice,  and  told  her  to  go  on 
with  the  lesson — that  she  had  heard  enough  of  the  soul  of 
music  for  one  day.  This  was  said  in  broken  English,  but  I 
liked  the  expression  so  much.  There  is  something  very  quiet 
and  solemn  about  those  two  rooms.  Hers  is  so  full  of 
pictures  and  silk  hangings,  and  all  sorts  of  foreign  looking 
things,  it  looks  (juite  like  a  chapel ;  and  the  next  is  a  library, 
and  opens  on  the  garden.  Lady-Bird  has  a  beautiful  voice, 
but  it  bores  her  to  practise  much,  and  what  bores  her  I 
suspect  she  never  does  ;  as  to  playing  she  will  not  even  at- 
tempt it  But  she  is  coming  here  tomorrow  at  three  o'clock 
to  look  over  the  music  I  brought  you,  and  to  choose  the  songs 
ehe  will  learn." 


J56  LADY-BIRD. 

"  0  then,  it  is  singing  lessons  you  give  her,  Maurico 
dear?"  Mrs.  Redmond  asked,  as  he  began  to  turn  over  a 
licap  uf  books  by  the  pianoforte. 

■■  I  suppose  so,  mother,"  he  answered  with  a  smile.  '•  Any- 
thing she  chooses  to  learn  :  but  one  might  as  well  try  to  teach 
the  lark  to  sit  still  on  a  bush,  and  practise  her  trills,  as  make 
Lady-Bird  apply  herself  to  anything  but  what  she  fancies  at 
the  moment." 

'•  She  will  try  your  patience  very  much,  dear  Maurice." 

'•0  1  shall  play  and  sing  to  her,  she  will  learn  iu  that 
way  ;  she  has  so  much  genius." 


CHAPTER  VI. 


"  ''Tis  amazement  more  than  love. 
Which  her  racli.ant  eyes  do  move  ; 
If  less  spleiifloiir  wait  on  thine, 
Yet  the_v  so  benignly  shine, 
I  would  turn  my  dazzled  sight 
To  behold  their  milder  light 
But  as  hard  'tis  to  destroy 
That  high  flame  as  to  enjoy; 
Whieh  how  eas'ly  I  may  do, 
Heav'n  (as  eas'ly  scaled)  does  know." 

Waller. 


The  next  day  Gertrude  was  true  to  her  appointment.  She 
was  in  high  spirits, — sung  a  roulade  as  she  arrived. at  the 
green  gate,  better  than  any  she  had  accomplished  the  day 
before  ;  told  Ja,ne  to  call  again  in  an  hour  ;  and,  asking  leave 
to  gather  some  of  the-  honeysuckles  and  jasmine  on  the  wall 
which  felt  hot  with  the  sun,  she  stood  some  time  outside  the 
house,  playing  with  Mrs.  Redmond's  cat  who  was  purring  on 
the  window  seat.  She  kept  gently  pinching  its  paw,  and  then 
kissing  it  to  make  up  for  it. 

'•I  am  sure  Mary  never  teased  anything  in  her  life;  did 
she.  Mrs.  Redmond?  But  it  is  a  bad  plan  to  make  people  too 
happy,  Mary. — they  say  it  never  answers  ;  and  though  '  they 
say'  is  a  vory  spiteful,  odious,  and  tiresome  imp,  I  believe  he 
is  right  sometimes.  Puss  will  be  much  more  glad  to  see  me 
the  next  time  I  come,  because  I  have  plagued  her  a  little,  and 
then  been  very  kind.     Does  Mary  ever  tease  you,  Maurice?" 

"  Only  I  believe  by  never  giving  me   an   opportunity  of 


LADY-BIUD,  57 

finding  fault  wi^i  her,"  he  answered  from  within  thu  room, 
where  he  w;is  writing  out  some  music. 

"  0,  but  that  is  a  very  great  fault,  indeed, — perhaps  the 
most  provoking  one  a  woman  can  have.  Won't  you  reform, 
Mary?  It  is  very  hard  on  poor  Maurice.  Men  do  so  like  to 
scold  and  lecture,  one  should  not  deprive  them  of  their  little 
amusements.  It  is  selfish  to  be  always  so  good.  Father 
Lifl'ord,  for  instance,  how  bored  he  would  be  if  1  was  as  good 
as  you  and  mamma.      Othello's  occupation  would  be  gone." 

After  going  on  for  some  time  in  this  way,  she  came  into 
the  room  and  began  to  examine  the  music.  Opening  a  volume 
of  manuscript  songs,  her  attention  was  arrested  by  one,  entitled, 
"  The  Blind  Man  to  his  Mistress." 

"  Is  this  your  own  composition?"  she  asked  of  Maurice,  ab 
sitting  down  at  the  pianoforte  she  tried  the  notes. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered ;  "  I  wrote  both  tlie  words  and  the 
music  after  seeing,  at  a  ball,  a  blind  nuin  who  was  engaged  to 
be  married  to  a  young  girl, — he  seemed  to  listen  to  the  sound 
of  her  footsteps  while  she  was  danchig  with  others." 

The  poetry  ran  thus  : — 

"  Ye.«,  others  .«ay  tlioy  love,  but  is  the  love  of  tlioso  who  see 

The  same  ileep  uiidividetl  love  my  liliiKhiess  jrivus  to  thee  ? 

0  do  those  who  can  gaze  each  day  on  the  fair  earth  and  sky, — • 

Do  tliey  watch  as  /  do  for  each  faint  whispered  word  or  sigh  ? 

And  do  tiiey  count  it  joy  to  hear  thy  footstep  and  thy  voice, 

And  in  tliy  slightest  touch,  as  in  the  greatest  blis.s,  rejoice  ? 

And  do  tliey  breathe  more  freely  when  the  free  and  blessed  air 

That  fans  their  aching  brow  has  playeil  through  thy  long  floating  hair? 

And  does  a  sense  of  gloom  oppress  their  heavy  heart  with  weight 

Unspeakable  if  e'er  in  vain  thy  coming  they  await  ? 

0,  if  they  love  and  see,  can  they  e'er  gaze  on  aught  but  thee  ? 

If  so,  their  love  is  not  such  love  as  my  blind  dreams  of  thee  1 " 

Gertrude  read  these  lines,  and  seemed  thoughtful  for  a 
moment. 

"  I  envy,"  she  exclaimed,  "  the  power  of  rendering  into 
verse  the  passing  impressions  of  the  hour, — of  fixing,  as  it 
were,  into  shape  that  floating  poetry  which  haunts  the  mind, 
and  makes  us  what  wise  people  call  romantic.  I  imagine  that 
poets  are  much  less  so  than  those  who  do  not  spend  their 
capital  of  imagination  upon  paper;  and,  judging  from  the 
lives  of  poets  and  persons  of  genius,  it  seems  to  me  that  in 
general  they  have  less  deep  feeling  than  silent  people, — I  do 


58  LADT-CIUD. 

not  mean  people  who  are  not  talkative,  but  those  who  canno' 
tell  themselves  their  own  story." 

'•'  But.  my  dear,  everybody  must  know  their  own  story,' 
Mrs.  liedraond  put  in.  "and  if  so,  they  can  tell  it  I  suppose 
though  not,  I  dare  say,  pleasantly  for  other  people  to  hear 
indeed,  I  forget  a   great  many  things  that  have  happened  to 
me,  and  I  suppose  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"  I  believe,"  Maurice  said,  "  that  imagination  makes  pco 
pie  suffer  with  tenfold  power  from  all  the  afflictions  that  com 
in  their  way.     It  awakens  presentiments  of  evil,  recalls  past 
sufferings,  multiplies  causes  of  annoyance,  and  wears  out  tho 
spirits  almost  as  much  by  the  stimulus  of  fictitious  and  fever- 
ish enjoyment,  as  by  its  fanciful  miseries." 

"  And  yet  you  would  not  be  without  it,  would  you?  "  she 
said,  turning  suddenly  round,  and  fixing  her  eyes  upon  him. 
He  looked  at  her  for  a  second,  and  then  hastily  said,  '•  No ; 
we  sometimes  cherish  the  cause  of  our  sufferings ;"  and  then, 
snatching  up  another  heap  of  music,  he  carried  it  to  the  piano- 
forte, and  turned  it  over  in  a  hurried  manner. 

She  repeated  his  last  words,  " '  Cherish  the  cause  of  our 
sufferings  ! ' — difficult.  I  should  think,  if  not  impossible.  But, 
if  so,  it  confirms  what  I  was  saying  just  now.  You  see,  Mary, 
one  must  make  people  suffer  sometimes,  that  they  may  appre- 
ciate their  happiness  on  the  whole." 

Mary's  colour  rose,  and  she  looked  graver  than  the  occa- 
sion required.  There  was  some  emotion  in  her  voice  as  she 
answered,  "  A  worthless  happiness  it  would  be,  given  by  such 
means,  and  bought  at  such  a  price." 

A  serious  reply  to  a  gay  remark  always  throws  a  degree 
of  embarrassment  into  the  conversation  where  it  occurs ;  and 
it  was  the  case  in  this  instance.  The  impression  was  not  di.s 
sipated  till  after  Maurice  had  played  two  or  three  things,  out 
of  which  Gertrude  chose  what  she  wished  to  learn.  She  then 
put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  stood  a  few  minutes  talking 
to  Mrs.  Redmond,  and  admiring  her  knitting.  As  she  was 
preparing  to  go  she  said  to  Maurice, 

"  Then  tomorrow,  at  five?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  ;  "  but  perhaps  I  may  not  be  quito 
exact,  as  it  is  a  long  way  from  here  to  Woodlands,  and  my 
horse  is  not  over  brisk.  Perhaps  you  will  not  mind  if  I  am  a 
few  minutes  late." 

"No;  I  shall  practise  this  song  in  the' meantime.  Y'ou 
give  lessons  at  Woodlands  then  ?  " 


LADY-BIRD. 


"  Yes,  to  Miss  Harriet  and  Miss  Fanny." 

"  Are  tliey  proniisiug  pupils'?  " 

•'  Diligent  ones,"  he  said  with  a  smile.  "  They  asked  me  a 
great  deal  about  you  the  other  day." 

'•  Did  they?  I  hope  you  will  not  give  me  a  bad  character 
the  next  time  they  do  so.  Is  Harriet  Aplcy  the  one  with  a 
plump  figure  and  rosy  cheeks  ?  " 

•'  Just  so ;  and  Fanny  has  dark  eyes  and  a  pale  com- 
plexion." 

'•  Is  there  a  governess  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  the  youngest  daughter.  She  must  be  about  your 
brother's  age." 

"  By  the  way,  Mary,"  Gertrude  exclaimed,  "  I  had  a  letter 
from  Edgar  the  other  day.  He  is  growing  so  priggish,  poor 
dear  boy,  it  is  quite  ridiculous.  He  talks  of  quarterings,  and 
heraldry,  and  old  families,  and  of  all  that  sort  of  trash  to 
papa's  heart's  content,  and  my  particular  discoDicnt.  I  shall 
have  no  patience  with  him  if  he  bores  mc  with  any  of  that 
nonsense  when  he  comes  home." 

"  But  is  it  not  rather  nice  of  him  to  care  about  what  inter- 
ests his  father  so  much  ?  " 

Gertrude  sat  down  again  at  the  table  opposite  Mary  and 
said — '•  Now  that  is  the  sort  of  thing  about  which  we  shall 
never  agree.  I  think  your  notions  about  always  trying  to  please 
people,  and  making  oneself  agreeable  to  them,  and  accommo- 
dating oneself  to  all  their  fancies,  are  next  door  to  hypjocrisy. 
If  I  was  to  sit  smiling  benignantly  for  instance,  and  looking 
all  delight  when  papa  and  Father  Liftbrd  talk  politics,  whereas 
I  feel  ready  to  bite  my  lips  through  with  vexation  at  having 
to  be  silent  and  not  argue  against  what  seems  to  me  such 
absurd  prejudice,  I  should  really  feel  ashamed  of  myself." 

'•  But  does  it  never  occur  to  you  that  they  may  be  right 
and  you  may  be  wrong  ?  There  is  so  much  to  be  said  on  both 
flides  of  every  question  which  does  not  involve  points  of  faith 
and  morality,  and  should  you  not  give  those  to  whom  you 
owe  so  much  deference  at  least  the  benefit  of  a  doubt  ?  " 

"  To  hear  a  mesalliance  spoken  of  as  a  crime  !  It  makes 
me  so  indignant  ;  and  that  Father  Lifford  especially  should 
talk  in  that  way  !     It  is  so  against  the  spirit  of  religion." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  Mary  exclaimed  with  some 
warmth.  "  We  cannot  judge  these  points,  or  estimate  the 
evil  of  such  things.  I  cannot  but  think,  Lady-Bird,  that  you 
are  too  positive  in  your  opinion." 


60  LADV-BIRD. 

"  I  nm  astonished,  Mary,"  Maurice  rejoined,  "  that  ynn 
should  object  to  that.  I  do  not  know  any  one  so  oLstinately 
resolved  as  you  are  on  certain  points." 

"  Is  not  she,  Maurice?  "  Gertrude  cried  with  exultation. 
''  T  know  so  well  the  expression  of  her  face  when  anybody 
approaches  one  of  her  strongholds.  Half  defying,  half  depre- 
cating, she  guards  her  opinions  like  an  angry  dove  her  nest." 

Maurice  laughed  and  looked  fondly  at  Mary,  who,  with  a 
little  reluctant  smile,  gently  said — 

"  Principles — not  opinions." 

'•  0  come,  Mary,  that  won't  do.  And  why  can't  I  have 
luy  political  opinions  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,  Lady-Bird,  you  know  very  well  that  you  have  no 
such  thing.  It  is  all  from  the  spirit  of  contradiction  that  you 
dislike  kings  and  heraldry  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  dare 
say  that  if  you  had  had  to  sit  without  speaking  and  to  hear 
republics  and  radicals  and  democracy  praised,  you  would  have 
been  by  this  time  a  determined  aristocrat." 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  "  Maurice  ejaculated.  Mrs.  Redmond 
looked  up  from  her  work  with  alarm. 

"  Why,  you  are  not  a  Radical,  Maurice,  I  hope  !  " 
"  No,"  he  answered,  "  but  I  hate  all  distinctions  of  class  and 
artificial  divisions.     What   I   do  like   is  a  spirit  above  preju- 
dice, and  the  disposition  to  estimate  things  according  to  what 
they  are,  not  according  to  what  they  are  called^ 

This  lucid  explanation  satisfied  Mrs.  Redmond,  and  she 
finished  putting  up  a  small  parcel  of  dried  violets,  which  Ger- 
trude had  promised  to  employ  that  evening  as  a  remedy 
against  a  slight  cough  which  she  complained  of  It  so  hap- 
pened that  tl'.e  sheet  of  paper  which  she  used  for  the  purpose, 
was  one  on  the  inside  of  which  Maurice  had  been  scribbling 
the  day  before,  and  had  forgotten  to  destroy,  so  that  when 
Gertrude  undid  the  packet  that  evening,  her  attention  was  at- 
tracted by  the  writing  within  the  sheet,  which  had  escaped 
Mrs.  Redmond's  observation,  and  the  following  lines  met  her 
eyes — 

"  Do  I  not  love  thee  ?     No,  I  feel  for  earth  and  sky  and  sea 
And  all  things  beautiful  in  life,  all  that  I  feel  for  thee. 
Do  I  not  love  thee  ?     No,  I  gaze  on  rose  or  lily  bright 
With  the  same  look  I  fix  on  thee,  of  wonder  and  delight. 
Do  I  not  love  thee?     No,  my  ears  in  tlie  spring-time  rejoice 
As  much  in  the  birds'  songs  as  in  the  music  of  thy  voice. 
Do  I  not  love  thee  'i   No,  the  stars,  the  whispering  winds,  the  flower8^ 
The  raui'mur  of  the  waves  at  night,  and  the  sweet  citron  bowers, 


LADY-BIRD.  61 

Have  breathofl  into  my  ,<oul  a  sense  of  boaiity  anrl  of  love 
As  keen  as  thy  bewitching  eyes  liave  ever  made  nic  prove." 

"  Are  these  Maurice's  own  writing,  I  wonder  ?  "  Gertrude 
said  to  herself,  as  she  put  down  tlie  paper.  "  And  are  the 
liewitching  eyes  he  alludes  to  mine?  "  She  was  sitting  at  her 
dressing-table,  and  looked  into  the  glass,  as  the  doubt — if 
doubt  it  was — suggested  itself.  What  she  saw  there  did  not 
tend  to  do  away  with  the  supposition — and  it  was  not  an  un- 
pleasant one.  especially  as  it  was  an  expression  of  intense  ad- 
miration, and  not  of  love  that  the  verses  contained.  For 
Maurice  to  have  been  in  love  with  her  would  have  been  ex- 
ceedingly inconvenient  and  tiresome.  It  would  have  raised 
all  sorts  of  questions  and  discussions  between  herself  and  her 
conscience,  and  interfered  with  an  intercourse  which  was  be- 
ginning to  amuse  her  ;  but  to  be  worshipped  as  a  star,  a  bird, 
a  wave,  or  a  flower,  was  perfectly  safe,  right,  entertaining  and 
agreeable,  and  with  this  conviction  she  retired  to  rest,  and  the 
next  day  looked  forward  with  pleasure  to  her  music  lesson. 

These  music  lessons  became  quite  a  new,  strange  enjoy- 
ment to  Mrs.  Liiford.  When  she  was  well  enough,  the  doors 
between  her  rooms  were  opened,  and  Jane  was  released  from 
her  post  of  chaperon.  During  that  whole  hour  her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  her  daughter.  She  gazed  on  her  as  at  a  living  pic- 
ture— each  lovely  contour  of  feature,  each  dimple,  each  glance 
she  learnt  as  it  were  by  heart,  and  the  full  tones  of  her  deep, 
sweet  voice  vibrated  in  her  soul  with  almost  painful  power. 
In  her  mind,  so  long  accustomed  to  silence  and  meditation, 
every  impression  took  that  form,  each  pleasurable  feeling  be- 
came an  aspiration,  and  every  emotion  turned  into  a  prayer. 
Quite  different  was  the  way  in  which  that  hour  was  spent  by 
the  pupil  and  the  master.  It  was  one  of  much  enjoyment  to 
both,  nor  did  eitiier  of  them  think  that  enjoyment  wrong. 
The  love  of  music,  the  desire  of  improvement  on  the  one 
hand,  the  interest  of  imparting  instruction  to  one  as  highly 
endowed  as  his  scholar  on  the  other,  were  legitimate  sources 
of  pleasure  and  excitement.  Sometimes  there  were  pauses  in 
the, lesson,  occasioned  by  questions  and  answers,  suggested  by 
the  niusic  they  studied,  or  the  recollections  it  called  up.  Ger- 
trude liked  to  hear  of  Italy,  and  when  tired  of  pi-actising.  she 
asked  for  descriptions,  which  Maurice  was  ready  enough  to 
give.  He  often  talked  of  his  friend  and  patron,  M.  d'Arberg, 
for   whom  he    had    an    enthusiastic  admiration,  and  quoted 


62  LADY-BIRD. 

his  thoughts  and  his  sayings.  The  glimpses  of  the  world 
which  she  thus  obtained  greatly  piqued  her  curiosity.  No 
one  else  had  ever  talked  to  her  of  what  she  was  only  acquainted 
with  through  books,  and  though  she  was  and  felt  herself  to 
be  much  cleverer  than  Maurice,  still  he  had  wherewith  to 
amuse  and  to  interest  her  exceedingly. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  not  to  delight  in 
giving  her  pleasure,  and'  the  pauses  between  the  songs  were 
sometimes  so  long  that  Mrs.  LifFord  would  inquire  if  Uie  les- 
son was  finished — which  reminded  them  that  it  was  a  lesson 
and  not  a  conversation  which  they  had  to  carry  on.  At  the 
end  of  the  hour  Gertrude  often  desired  him  to  play  or  to  sing 
some  of  her  favourite  airs,  some  of  Shubert's  melodies,  or  a 
Spanish  Guerilla  song,  or  a  symphony  of  Beethoven ;  and 
then,  sitting  by  her  mother's  couch — with  her  hand  locked  in 
hers — she  dreamed  of  scenes  and  of  places  which  her  fancy 
conjured  up.  It  was  quite  a  new  feeling  to  the  motlier  and 
the  daughter  to  enjoy  anything  together,  and  Mrs.  LiflFord 
never  perceived  that  there  was  anything  objectionable  in  these 
lessons.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  world,  or  of  any  heart  but 
her  own — so  pure  a  one  that  it  had  never  taught  her  to  sus- 
pect evil  or  danger,  and  indeed  in  this  instance  there  was  no 
evil  to  be  discerned,  and  if  there  was  danger  it  was  remote. 
Had  she  been  more  experienced  and  keen  sighted,  she  might 
have  observed  both  admiration  and — at  times — emotion  in 
Maurice's  countenance,  and  in  Gertrude's  a  consciousness  of 
that  admiration,  and  a  certain  pleasure  in  it,  albeit  not  the 
slightest  approach  to  anything  beyond  a  momentary  gratifica- 
tion at  its  existence.  She  might,  indeed,  have  felt,  when  they 
practised  together  the  beautiful  music  of  Anna  Bolena,  and 
sang  with  great  expression,  the  air,  '-Fin  dell  eta  pin  tencra,'' 
like  Madame  de  Maintenon  when  she  wrote  to  Racine  after 
the  pupils  of  St.  Cyr  had  acted  Andromaque.  "iYos  petites 
filles  out  si  biefi  joue  votrc  tragedie  qiCcllcs  ne  la  rejuiicront 
de  leur  vie ;''  she  might  have  said,  '-//.v  Pont  si  bien  chante 
quHls  ne  le  rcchanlcront  de  lew-  vie:''  But  gentle,  kind,  and 
pure-hearted  as  she  wa.s — and  intelligent,  too,  in  some  ways — 
very  eloquent  in  her  native  tongue,  to  a  degree  that  would 
have  surprised  those  who  never  heard  her  speak  but  in  broken 
English,  she  was  not  endowed  with  Madame  de  Maintenon's 
talent  for  government,  and  would  never  have  ruled  St.  Cyr,  or 
swayed  the  heart  of  the  Grand  Monarque. 

And  so  these  lessons  went  on  for  several  weeks.     Maurice 


LADY-BIRD.  63 

framed  his  engagements  so  as  not  to  omit  them.  He  was 
very  busy  and  in  good  spirits,  liis  hcaltli  improved  dail}^,  and 
he  was  as  fond  of  Mary  as  ever.  He  always  talked  to  her  a 
groat  deal  of  Gertrude.  He  explained  to  her  that  he  admired 
her  as  a  master-pieee  of  creation,  as  a  type  of  loveliness,  an 
artist  in  soul,  an  ideal  of  beauty  an'cl  of  genius  ;  but  that  it 
would  be  as  unreasonable  to  sup])Ose  that  his  admiration  of 
her  had  anything  to  do  with  A>/;e,  as  to  have  accused  him  of 
being  in  love  with  Titian's  Flora,  or  the  portrait  of  the  Cenci, 
because  he  had  spent  hours  in  contemplation  before  them,  or 
because  he  worshipped  intellect,  talent,  and  beauty  in  art  and 
in  Nature. 

Mary  listened  rather  gravely  to  all  this,  and  said  she  thoughl 
he  worshipped  beauty  a  gr»jat  denl  too  much  in  everything — 
that  it  was  a  sort  of  idolatry.  '■  What  did  it  signify,"  he  an- 
swsered,  "if  he  loved  her  bett/cr  than  anything  else  in  the 
world?"  There  was  no  answering  that,  but  her  brow  had 
often  now  an  anxious  expression,  and  the  thoug-lit  of  '"  deep 
violet  eyes  with  a  light  shining  in  them,  like  a  ray  of  sunshine 
through  a  dark  heart's-ease,"  was  apt  to  "  come  painfully  often 
between  her  and  the  midnight  skies  " 

One  is  rather  prone — especially  in  a  novel — to  be  unjust 
towards  those  who  do  right  things  in  a  disagreeable  manner, 
and  to  blame  the  conduct  of  disagreeable  people  without  suffi- 
ciently considering  their  actions  in  themselves.  Some  very 
sensible  proceeding  may  meet  with  general  condemnation  if  it 
is  the  act  of  the  author's  bste  n.oire.  and  if  he  has  been  fortu- 
nate enough  to  inspire  his  reader  with  a  sympathetic  aversion. 
Mrs.  Lifford  was  r.iniable  and  interesting  both  from  her  char- 
acter and  her  sufferings,  and  scarcely  to  blame  for  an  igno- 
rance which  in  her  position  was  very  natural,  but  her  blindness 
and  her  iuiprudeuce  were  undeniable  ;  and  an  event  soon  took 
place  which  roused  painful  feelings  in  more  hearts  than  one,  and 
deepened  Gertrude's  resentment  against  her  father.  Yet  in 
this  instance,  though  his  mode  of  acting  was  neither  kind  noi* 
judicious,  he  was  undoubtedly  perfectly  right  in  the  main. 

He  came  one  day  into  the  library  next  to  his  wife's  room, 
at  an  unusual  hour,  and  whilst  Gertrude  was  taking  her  music 
lesson.  He  stood  at  the  door  for  five  minutes  like  the  statue 
of  the  Commendatore.  His  cold  glassy  eyes  fixed  on  the 
flushed  and  animated  countenance  of  his  daughter,  who  was 
singing  with  considerable  animation  an  Italian  bravura ;  ho 
then  turned  them  on  the  pale  but  not  less  excited  face  of  the 


64  LADY-BIRD. 

young  musician,  wlio  seemed  to  watch  her  lips  as  if  "  the  airs 
of  heaven  were  playing  on  her  tongue,"  and  thrilling  through 
his  soul,  and  then  on  the  maid  busily  absorbed  in  her  work  at 
some  distance,  and  without  saying  a  word,  he  turned  on  his 
heel  and  left  the  room  unobserved  by  any  of  the  three. 

That  evening,  when  Mrs.  Redmond,  Mary,  and  Maurice 
were  at  tea,  the  maid  came  in  and  gave  him  a-letter  which 
had  just  been  brought  from  Liffbrd  Grange.  He  supposed  it 
to  be  a  message  about  some  music  which  he  was  to  have  writ- 
ten for  to  London,  and  hastily  opened  it.  Mary — who  was 
watching  him — started  at  the  expression  which  suddenly  over- 
spread his  face.  It  was  the  paleness  of  anger  that  blenched 
his  cheek,  and  made  his  mouth  quiver. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  in  an  almost  inaudible  whisper. 

"  There  !"  he  said,  "  take  and  read  that.  This  is  the  sort 
of  treatment  one  is  exposed  to  in  England — the  only  country 
where  it  would  be  tolerated.  Oh,  tlie  vulgar  pride  of  rank, 
the  insolence  of  fancied  superiority  !" 

He  dashed  the  note  on  the  ground,  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  room  with  a  scowl  on  his  brow,  and  a  burning  spot 
on  his  cheek.  Mary  picked  up  the  paper  which  he  had  crum- 
pled and  torn,  and  smoothing  it  again,  read  its  contents, 
which  were  as  follows  : — 

"  Mr.  LiiFord  presents  his  coraplinionts  to  Mr.  Ptedmond, 
and  begs  to  inform  him  that  Miss  Lifiord  will  not  continue 
her  music  lessons,  and  at  the  same  time  he  requests  him  to 
have  the  goodness  to  send  his  account." 

Maurice  stopped  opposite  to  Mary,  and  with  an  impatient 
"  Well !  "  awaited  her  comments  on  this  note.  She  felt  embar- 
rassed, for  it  did  not  appear  to  her  insolent,  as  he  called  it, 
though  ungracious  it  certainly  was.  and  there  was  an  instinct 
in  her  woman's  heart  which  whispered  the  cause  of  this 
abrupt  dismissal.  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  paper  for 
some  seconds,  and  then  said  in  a  hesitating  manner, 

•'  It  is  annoying,  but — " 

"  It  is  insulting  !  "  he  rejoined.  '•  I  shall  send  him  neither 
answer  nor  account." 

"  Maurice,  if  you  are  so  proud,  how  will  you  ever  make 
your  fortune,  and  how  shall  we  realize  our  hopes,  and  provide 
for  mother  in  her  old  age  ?" 

lie  clenched  hi,5  hand  and  cried,  "  T  would  rather  die  than 
touch  his  money." 

She  sighed  and  said  nothing  more,  and  two  hours  passed 


LADV-BIKD.  06 

gloomily  away.  Tlicn  a  knock  was  heard  at  tlie  door,  and  the 
maid  announced  Miss  Liiford.  Maurice  and  Mary  botli  gave 
a  start.  Mrs.  Redmond,  who  had  been  dozing  in  her  arm- 
chair, rubbed  her  eyes  and  said,  ''  Dear  nie,  liow  d'ye  do,  my 
dear  young  lady."  Gertrude  shook  hands  with  her,  and  she 
thought  her  hand  cold  and  nervous,  but  before  there  was  time 
to  remark  upon  it,  she  had  turned  away,  and  was  standing 
before  Maurice.  '•  I  am  come,"  she  said,  "  to  thank  you  for 
the  lessons  you  have  given  me,  and  the  trouble  you  have 
taken  with  me.  You  must  not  be  sliocked  or  annoyed 
at  the  letter  tliat  I  hear  my  father  has  sent  you.  There 
is  n:)tliing  offensive  to  you  in  this  proceeding.  It  is  only 
that  anything  tliat  gives  me  pleasure,  anything  that  re- 
lieves the  monotony  of  niy  lif(!.  and  affords  me  interest  or 
occu[)ation  is  imniediately  forbidden.  I  suppose  that  my  books 
will  soon  be  taken  away  from  me,  and  if  1  could  be  commanded 
not  to  think^  it  would  doubtless  be  done,  and  my  mind  would 
become  as  stagnant  as  my  existence,  as  dull  as  tliat  hateful 
canal  that  flows  under  our  windows.  But,  thank  God.  that  is 
impossible — and  I  will  neither  be  an  idiot  out  of  obedience, 
or  ungrateful  out  of  submission  ;  and  so  I  once  more  thank 
you  for  the  instruction  you  have  given  me,  for  the  first  enjoy- 
ment I  have  shared  with  my  mother,  for  the  happy  moments 
I  have  had  while  you  |ilayed  to  me  and  talked  to  me  of  other 
lands  which  it  will  never  be  my  fate  to  see.  That  is  all  I 
had  to  say  :  it  is  late  and  Jane  is  in  a  hurry.  Good  bye,  I 
am  glad  that  I  was  able  to  say  this  to  you  all." 

She  was  gone  in  an  instant,  and  Mrs.  lledmond  asked  what 
it  all  meant.  Mary  explained  it  to  her  in  a  few  words,  and  then 
turning  to  INIaurice  with  some  emotion  said:  "Now,  Maurice, 
you  cannot  feel  prctud  or  angry  any  more — she  is  a  dear  beautiful 
Lady-Biid,  and  I  wish  she  was  not  shut  up  in  such  a  dull  cage  ; 
it  would  be  better  for  her  "  (and  for  us  too,  she  inwardly  added). 

'•  True,  my  little  dove,"  he  answered,  "  and  what  would  you 
do  with  her  if  you  could  1  " 

'•  Open  her  prisou-door,  and  let  her  fly  away  to  a  happy 
home  of  her  own." 

lie  smiled,  and  putting  a  sheet  of  paper  before  her  said, 
"  Come  now,  make  out  an  account  for  me  for  this  Blue-Beard 
at  Lifford  Grano'e." 

She  hiughed  and  began  casting  up  figures,  while — leaning 
on  his  hands — he  sat  looking  at  her,  feeling  the  repose  of  that 
Bweet  face,  and  glad  to  find  how  very  dear  she  was  to  him. 

5 


66  LADY-BIRD. 

"  Twenty  guineas  I  make  it  out  to  be ! "  she  triumpliantly 
exchnnicd.  "  Indeed  !  What  a  fortune  ! "  he  answered  gaily, 
imitating  her  manner;  and  they  talked  nonsense,  and  built 
castles  in  the  air.  and  were  as  happy  and  as  merry  as  possible 
during  all  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

A  few  weeks  elapsed,  during  which  Gertrude  called  two  or 
three  times  on  Mary,  once  to  lend  her  a  book  she  had  wished 
to  read,  then  to  return  some  music  which  3Iaurice  had  left  at 
the  Grange,  and  began  to  bog  for  some  of  Mrs.  Redmond's 
rot-poiirri.  It  was  natural  enough  that  she  should  find 
pleasure  in  these  visits.  That  cottage  was,  in  every  way,  a 
pleasant  spot.  Its  garden  was  bright  with  autumnal  flowers  ; 
there  was  a  perfume  of  domestic  happiness  within  and  about 
it  Mrs.  Kcdmond's  gentle  manner,  Mary's  affectionate  wel- 
come, Maurice's  respectful  homage  were  as  soothing  to  her 
feelings  as  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers  was  agreeable  to  her 
senses.  Then  she  had  also  an  odd  kind  of  curiosity  in  watch- 
ing Mary  and  Maurice  together.  She  had  read  as  many 
novels  as  she  could  possibly  lay  her  hand  upon,  and  had 
studied  them  till  she  knew  them  almost  by  heart,  but  of  love 
in  real  life  she  had  never  seen  anything,  and,  concluding  that 
these  two  young  persons  were  engaged  to  one  another,  it 
amused  her  to  observe  how  far  they  realised  the  notions  she 
had  formed  of  lovers. 

"  I  believe,"  she  said  to  herself  one  day,  "  that  she  would 
follow  him  to  the  end  of  the  world,  to  prison  and  to  death 
also,  and  give  her  life  for  him  or  burn  her  right  hand  and  not 
wince  as  she  did  so,  if  it  could  be  of  use  to  him  ;  but,  somehow 
or  other,  her  love  seems  to  be  more  a  religion  than  a  passion, 
more  of  devotion  in  it  than  of  fervour,  rather  drawn  from  the 
depths  of  her  own  heart,  and  freely  bestowed  upon  him,  than 
irresistibly  attracted  towards  him.  As  to  Maurice,  I  do  not 
know  if  he  is  capable  of  loving  deeply — I  thirds  he  has  more 
dependence  upon  her,  more  selfish  attachment  to  thehajipiness 
she  creates  for  him  than  any  more  devoted  feeling."  While 
she  was  thus  musing,  her  eyes  had  unconsciously  fixed  them- 
selves on  Maurice,  and — abstracted  in  her  own  thoughts — she 
was  not  aware  of  it. 

Mary,  in  a  somewhat  constrained  voice,  said  to  her:  "  You 
arc  very  silent,  Lady-Bird  ;  what  are  you  thinking  of?"  And 
Gertrude,  turning  to  her  with  a  smile,  answered,  ■'  I  believe 
that  instead  of  buying  my  thoughts  you  would  rather  buy  my 
gilcnce,  for  I  was  thinking  of  something  you  alway^s  forbid  me 


\ 


LADY-BIRD.  0^ 

«o  speak  .about."  Mary  coloured,  and  said :  "  Then,  indeed, 
Miss  Lifford,  I  will  not  repeat  my  question."  Gertrude 
Bliru^fged  her  shoulders  impatiently. 

''  Why  will  you  call  me  Miss  Lifford,  when  I  call  you  Mary  ? 
It  is  so  stiff  and  nonsensical." 

"  I  think  your  father  would  be  surprised  if  he  was  to  hear 
Mary  call  you  Gertrude,"  Mrs.  Redmond  said. 

"  I  don't  care  what  he  thinks — his  notions  about  rank  arc 
absurd.  If  people  have  been  ecjually  well  educated,  surely 
they  are  equals  to  all  intents  and  purposes." 

"  No  !  not  in  every  sense,  dear  Lady-Bird." 

"  That  is  one  of  those  convenient  ans\vers  th.at  sound  well," 
Gertrude  rejoined,  "and  in  reality  mean  nothing.  In  what 
sense  are  t/ou  not  my  equal,  I  should  like  to  know?  " 

"  I  am  not  in  the  same  worldly  position  as  you  are ;  I  do 
not  live  in  the  same  society." 

Maurice's  brow  clouded  over,  and,  hastily  snatching  up  a 
newspaper,  he  sat  down  with  his  back  to  the  table. 

"What  society  r/o  I  live  in?"  Gertrude  impetuou.sly  ex- 
claimed. "  I  never  see  any  one  beyond  the  walls  of  Lifford 
Grange,  except  here,  and  at  home  I  sometimes  make  the  maids 
my  companions  from  sheer  ennui  at  being  so  much  alone." 

"  That  is  a  peculiarity  in  your  case,"  Mary  answered  ;  "  but 
if  your  father  did  not  shun  all  society,  you  would  live  with 
people  whom  we  should  not  associate  with." 

"  Yes.  my  fate  is  a  very  peculiar  one.  I  begin  to  be  fully 
aware  of  that,  and  therefore  if  I  should  ever  act  in  a  very 
peculiar  manner,  who  is  to  blame  me  ?     Not  my  father,  sure- 

"  You  are  accountable  to  One  of  still  higher  authority." 

"  Aye  !  but  Ho  is  no  respecter  of  persons,  Mary  !  He  does 
not  care  for  (juarterings  and  old  parchments." 

"But  He  has  bid  us  honour  our  parents,  arid  not  set  up 
our  own  judgment  against  theirs." 

"  Well,  but  answer  me  truly.  In  the  sight  of  God  are 
we  not  all,"  and  she  glanced  round  the  room,  "  perfectly 
equal  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  not,"  Mary  said  with  a  smile,  as  she 
glanced  at  her  deaf  patient  mother,  intently  busy  over 
Maurice's  shirt,  which  she  was  mending. 

"  Ah  !  you  may  be  right  there,"  Gertrude  quickly  rejoined, 
"  but  then  grant  at  least  that  if  there  is  superiority  amongst 
uSj  it  is  not  with  me  it  lies.     Y'our  mother  is  my  superior ;  so 


08  LADY-BIRD. 

are  you  ! — Do  not  dispute  it.  Let  it  be  for  argument's  sake, 
and  my  point  is  established."  * 

"  The  blacksmith  may  be  your  superior  in  one  sense,  for 
aught  you  know  ;  and  yet  I  suppose  you  will  hardly  consider 
him  as  altogether  your  equal  ?  " 

'•  Indeed  I  should,  if  instead  of  being  coarse,  vulgar  and 
ignorant,  he  was  good-looking,  clever,  and  better  informed  than 
myself  If  I  saw  him  employ  every  moment  not  engaged  by 
his  labours  in  cultivating  his  mind,  and  improving  the  talents 
that  Heaven  had  bestowed  upon  him,  if  his  sentiments  were 
refined,  and  his  character  elevated,  can  you  imagine  for  a  mo- 
ment that  I  should  not  think  that  man  my  equal — nay,  my 
superior,  and  feel  humbled  to  the  dust  in  comparing  his  great- 
ness and  my  littleness?  " 

Her  features  were  glowing  with  enthusiasm,  and  she  spoke 
so  loud,  that  Mrs.  Redmond  looked  up  from  her  work  with  an 
inquiring  smile,  and  seemed  a  little  anxious  when  she  saw 
Gertrude's  flushed  cheek  and  Mary's  grave  countenance.  The 
latter  answered  calmly  : — 

"  You  would  be  quite  right  in  admiring  such  a  man,  and 
in  considering  him  as  your  superior  in  all  essential  respects ; 
but  all  this  would  not  make  him  your  equal  in  a  social  point 
of  view,  or  break  down  the  barrier  which  a  difference  of  rank 
would  place  between  you." 

"  I  hate  and  despise  conventionalities,"  Gertrude  replied, 
"and  especially  cant,  which  is  the  worse  form  of  convention- 
ality. I  am  tired  of  hearing  what  should  be.  and  want  to  hear 
of  what  zs." 

"  I  will  tell  you,  dear  Lady-13ird,  what  invariably  is  the 
case  when  women  begin  to  talk  of  hating  and  despising  what 
others  respect.  The  love  of  independence  is  the  first  step  to- 
wards evil — "  '•  Or  towards  virtue  and  happiness,"  Maurice 
murmured  in  a  low  voice.  "  and  not  the  virtue  of  mere  habit 
—not  a  common-place  happiness." 

The  colour  in  Mary's  cheek  now  rivalled  that  in  Gertrude's, 
and  she  fixed  her  calm  clear  eyes  steadily  upon  her,  which 
seemed  to  make  her  uneasy ;  but  proudly  throwing  back  her 
head,  she  exclaimed  : — 

"  I  am  not  ashamed  of  anything  I  say  !  " 

"  And  not  of  anything  you  do  ?  "  Mary  said  in  a  very  low 
whisper — so  low  that  no  one  else  heard  it  but  her  to  whom  it 
was  addressed — and  then  bent  her  eyes  on  the  work  she  was 
employed  upon.     Gertrude  moved  hastily  away,  and  sitting 


LADY-CIUD.  60 

down  by  Mrs.  Ecdmond,  she  took  up  a  faded  Cape  jessamine 
l.hat  was  lying  on  the  table,  and  said  to  her, 

•'•  I  am  sure  this  comes  from  Woodlands  !     Does  it  not?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Apley  gave  it  me  yesterda}^  when  I  went  to 
her  about  the  geranium  cuttings  she  wanted  from  our  little 
garden.     She  was  spojildng  of  you,  Miss  Lifford  ! " 

"  Was  she?"  Gertrude  exclaimed  with  sudden  animation; 
"  what  did  she  say  about  me  ?  " 

"  It  was  in  talking  of  this  gi-eat  breakfast  that  is  going  to 
take  place  there  ;  a  ball,  I  believe,  and  a  concert,  all  in  one, 
for  Mr.  Apley's  coming  of  age.  Maurice  is  going  to  play 
there,  at  least  they  want  him  to  do  so  :  all  sorts  of  great 
London  performers  and  singers  are  to  be  there,  and  company 
from  a  great  distance."  (Maurice  at  this  moment  left  the 
room,  and  threw  himself  on  the  bench  in  the  garden.)  '•  Miss 
Aple}'  was  saying  how  much  she  admired  you  :  that  it  was 
quite  a  pleasure  to  them  all  to  meet  you  in  their  drives,  and 
that  they  had  so  long  been  wishing  to  make  your  acnpaint- 
ance.  She  asked  me  if  you  were  out.  I  said  that  you  were 
grown  up,  but  had  not  yet  been  presented,  I  thought." 

"  No,  indeed  ;  and  if  I  do  not  some  day  present  myself 
to  the  world,  I  do  not  suppose  that  any  one  else  will  do  it 
for  me  !  " 

"  Miss  Apley  said  that  they  had  sent  an  invitation  to  the 
Grange,  and  they  did  so  hope  you  would  be  allowed  to  come, 
but  were  sadly  afraid  it  would  be  i-efused." 

"  It  will  be  refused,"  Gertrude  gloomily  ejaculated  ;  and 
her  eyes — so  bright  a  moment  before — were  suddenly  over- 
cast like  a  summer  sky  by  a  thunder-cloud. 

"  She  said  that  if  you  had  any  friends  in  the  neighbourhood 
you  would  like  to  go  with,  they  would  ask  them  directly." 

"  I  have  no  friends,"  Gertrude  said  in  the  same  gloomy 
manner.     "  I  know  nobody — nobody  but  you." 

Maurice  came  and  leant  against  the  window,  and  hastily 
gathering  a  nosegay  of  jessamine  and  roses,  he  held  it  out  to 
her.  She  took  it,  and  smelt  at  it  in  an  absent  listless  man- 
ner, and  soon  went  away.  As  she  walked  through  the  garden 
witii  her  maid,  who  had  been  waiting  for  her  at  the  gate,  she 
unconsciously  dropped  it.  He  picked  it  up  and  pulled  it  to 
pieces.  Mrs.  Redmond  said  to  her  daughter,  "  There  is  an 
orphan-like  look  about  that  young  creature,  though  she  has  a 
father  and  mother."  Maurice  came  in  and  practised  sonre 
difficult  pa.ssages,  playing  with  great  brilliancy  and  effect. 


'10  LADY-BIRD. 

"You  must  play  tliat  at  "Woodlands,"  Mary  said,  when  he 
had  finished  some  variations  on  a  beautiful  air  of  Mendelssohn's 

'•  Oh,  I  can  play  in  that  way  to  you,  my  little  Mary,  but 
there '■ " 

''  What !  lias  the  English  air  turned  you  shy,  Maurice — 
you  who  have  been  so  used  to  public  performances — who  have 
played  in  Italy  before  artists  and  fine  ladies?" 

"  I  suppose  it  is  English  air,  and  English  coldness  that 
makes  me  faint-hearted.  It  is  so  seldom  that  an  English  au- 
dience show  any  pleasure  or  feeling,  especially  at  a  private 
concert ;  and  weak  applause  paralyzes  the  spirit  and  the 
fingers." 

'•  But  you  will  win  fame,  Maurice  dear  !  "  the  widow  ejac- 
ulated. 

"  Fame  is  a  big  word,  mother,"  he  answered,  with  a  half 
smile. 

"  Praise."  Mary  said,  "  the  forerunner  of  Fame." 

"  Cleverly  said,  little  Mary  !  but  I  will  own  to  you  that 
there  is  one  sort  of  praise  than  which  hisses  would  be  more 
acceptable.  You  are  conscious,  perhaps,  of  having  played 
very  ill,  and  these  people  come  up  to  you  with  a  smile  on 
their  faces,  and  exclaim,  '  Oh,  how  beautiful  that  was  !  What 
a  charming  thing  !  You  never  played  so  well  in  your  life  ! ' 
and  you  wax  sick,  or  v/roth  with  their  nonsense.  And  worse  still 
than  that,  pei-haps  you  have  played  well,  and  that  you  also 
know — by  the  throbbing  head,  the  aching  nerves,  the  icy 
hands  which  bear  witness  to  it,- — you  have  poured  out  your 
soul  in  an  improvisation,  and  then  somebody  asks  you  for 
that  pretty  thing  over  again  !  They  might  as  well  encore  a 
flash  of  lightning,  or  cry  '  Bis '  at  the  fall  of  an  avalanche  " 

"  You  must  forget  these  troublesome  people,  and  think 
only  of  those  whose  hearts  beat  in  unison  with  yours,"  and 
she  laid  her  head  on  the  pianoforte,  in  an  attitude  that  pleased 
his  eye  and  amused  his  fancy. 

He  stroked  her  fair  hair  and  said,  "  You  are  my  good 
genius — no,  that  is  not  the  word,  my  good  angel  rather.  How 
is  it  that  you  always  understand  me?  " 

"  I  have  an  echo  Aere,"  she  said,  with  her  hand  on  her 
heart,  "  which  responds  to  what  you  feel.  Do  you  remember 
how  fond  we  were  as  children  of  the  echo  in  the  ruins  of  the 
abbey,  and  how  we  used  to  make  it  repeat,  word  after  word, 
our  favourite  verses  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do  ;  but  how  vexed  we  were,  also,  when  noisy  chil- 


LADY-BIRD.  71 

aren  or  fine  ladies  came  there,  aud  made  our  dear  echo  repeat 
harsh  sounds  or  silly  words.  So  in  the  world,  the  folly  and 
the  henrtlessness  of  others  disturb  the  haniiony  you  speak  of " 

"  I  should  have  thought  it  would  only  have  deepened  it," 
she  said. 

"  The  truth  is,  Mary,  that  you  do  not  quite  know  what  an 
artist  is,  and  on  what  kind  of  stimulus  he  lives.  You  are  al- 
ways talking  of  genius  as  of  something  very  holy,  very  exalted, 
very  pure,  and  you  seem  to  forget  in  what  a  rank  soil  it  often 
thrives,  and  how  little  of  a  religious  spirit  has  accompanied 
some  of  its  highest  manifestations.  It  is  a  fire,  but  not  always 
from  Heaven." 

•'  Oh,  yes !  from  Heaven  !  "  she  exclaimed  with  fervour, 
'  surely  from  Heaven  it  comes,  pure,  bright  and  undetiled  ; 
like  all  that  God  creates,  it  is  good ;  and,  like  all  that  man 
misuses,  dangerous.  The  flame  that  burns  amidst  foulness 
and  corruption  does  not  lose  its  purity,  and  genius,  inhabiting 
a  mean  and  vicious  soul,  is  a  spark  of  heavenly  fire  shining 
through  the  mist  of  human  depravity." 

'■Then  genius  may  atone  for  moral  perversity?" 

"  Oh,  no  !  for  what  sin,  wluit  disgrace  can  be  greater  than 
to  use  for  vile  purposes  so  glorious  a  gift  of  God — to  drag 
througli  the  mire  what  was  meant  to  raise  us  to  Heaven  !" 

"  Why.  Mary,  you  surprise  me!  Have  you,  after  all.  a 
poet's  spirit  within  you?" 

"No,  indeed,"  she  answered,  '•  it  is  only  the  echo  I  was 
speaking  of  just  now.  I  cannot  say  things  of  this  sort  out  of 
my  own  head,  but  I  remember  what  you  say  and  wduit  j'ou 
read  to  me,  and.  like  the  bird  in  the  fable,  make  myself  smart 
with  borrowed  feathers  " 

''  No,  indeed.  Mary  darling,"  her  niothcr  called  out,  '-I  am 
sure  you  are  not  like  a  bii'd  in  a  fable.  You  always  were  a 
good  child — is  it  not  true,   Maurice?" 

"She  is,  indeed,"  he  answered  ;  "  and  the  only  bird  she  is 
like  is  a  true  dove,  a  messenger  of  peace,  the  type  of  heaven's 
love.  And  now  let  us  think  of  this  fete  at  Woodlands.  You 
are  to  go  there  witli  me,  Mary — Miss  Apley  said  so.  How 
shall  you  be  dressed  ?  " 

'' t  have  not  thought  of  that  yet.  I  suppose  that  I  shall 
put  on  my  white  nui.slin  gown,  and  the  blue  and  white  chain 
that  you  brought  me  from  Venice,  and  I  am  afraid  I  must 
buy  a  new  ribbon  for  my  bonnet,  and  perhaps  q,  new  shawk  It 
is  very  expensive  indeed,  to  be  an  artist's "    She  hesitated, 


7Q  lady-bird. 

and  Le   said,  "An  artist's  bride?"     She  shook  her  head  and 
laughed. 

'•How  will  Ladj-Bird  be  dressed?"  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,  indeed,  but  I  am  afraid  she  will  not  go  '  \  ' 

"  0  but  I  hope  she  will — it  will  make  a  great  difference  to  \ 

you  if  slie  does." 

"  I  hope  so,  too  ;  for  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  for  her 
to  become  accjuainted  with  persons  in  her  own  rank  of  life." 

"  She  does  not  care  for  all  that — she  has  no  mean  preju- 
dices, and  never  uses  cant  phrases.  She  is  as  guileless  as  a 
child—" 

"  0  Maurice,  do  you  think  she  is  so  perfectly  artless  as 
that  ?  " 

'■•  You  do  not,  I  see.  Ah,  Mary,  what  woman  was  ever  a 
true  friend  to  another?  I  should  have  thought  you  might 
have  been  an  exception  to  the  rule,  but  it  is  always  the  same,  I 
suppose  ;  a  woman  never  likes  to  hear  her  best  friend 
praised." 

Mary  had  a  little  struggle  with  herself,  and  then  said :  "  I 
think  she  has  very  fine  (qualities,  and  it  is  impossible  not  to 
admire,  to  pity " 

'•  And  to  love  her,"  he  quickly  added,  "  and  the  fewer 
friends  she  has,  the  more  we  ought  to  cling  to  her.  To  love 
her  only  next  to  what  we  love  best.  You  will  love  her  next 
to  me,  and  I  will  love  her  next  to  you." 

"  Indeed,  Maurice,  wc  must  not  look  forward  to  th;^t,  or 
expect  that  our  intimacy  will  continue ;  wo  cannot  be  of 
use  to  Aer,  and  she  may  do  us  harm." 

"What  nonsense  that  is,  and  how  selfish,  too!  I  never 
should  liave  suspected  you  of  such  narrow-minded  folly." 

He  turned  away  witli  an  expression  of  deep  annoyance, 
and  did  not  recover  his  tranquillity  for  some  time.  It  was  the 
first  time  since  his  return  that  he  had  spoken  harshly  to  Mary. 
Perhaps  she  had  been  unwise  in  what  she  had  said,  and  she 
reproached  herself  for  it  as  for  a  fault ;  but  she  had  seen  a 
rising  cloud  in  the  liorizon,  which  threatened  his  peace  as  well 
as  her  own,  and  for  one  instant  had  betrayed  what  it  would 
have  been  more  prudent  to  conceal.  She  did  penance  for  it 
with  secret  tears  and  aching  reviewals  of  every  word  that  she 
had  uttered.  He  did  no  penance,  he  shed  no  tears,  he  ques- 
tioned not  his  heart;  but  when  she  received  him  with  a  smile 
and  made  his  breakfast  for  him  as  usual  the  next  morning 
and  showed  no  consciousness  of  offence,  he  was  perfectly  sa*- 


LADY-BIRD.  73 

isfied.  and  thought  how  comfortable  it  would  be  to  have  such 
a  sweet-tempered  wife. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  Et  (ie  ma  vie  obscure,  lielas- !   qn'aiirais-jc  n  flire  ? 

Kile  flit — ee  qu'elle  est.  pour  tout  cc  qui  resjiire 

Sur  les  iiiers  de  ce  inonde  il  n'est  Jamais  de  port, 
Et  le  naufra^e  seul  nous  jelte  sur  le  liord  ! 
Jeune  encore  j'ai  pondi'  ces  tcncbres  i)rotbndes, 
La  vie  est  un  degrc  de  reehelle  dcs  inondes, 
Que  nous  devoiis  fiancliir  pour  airiver  ailleurs." 

Lamartink. 

"  But  what  are  tliese  crave  thoughts  to  thee? 
For  restlessly,  impatiently 
Tliou  strivest.  strugglest  to  be  free. 
The  only  dream  is  liberty, 
I'hou  carest  little  how  or  wliere." 

Longfellow. 

Gertrude  stood  at  her  window  on  one  of  those  drizzling  me- 
lancholy mornings  that  impart  a  degree  of  gloom  even  to  the 
most  cheerful  landscape ;  and  never  had  the  scene  she  looked 
upon  appeared  so  utterly  uninviting  to  Iiereycs.  An  English 
park — beautiful  as  it  often  is — dees  not  always  present  a  very 
exhilarating  appearance.  The  large  solitary  trees  with  their 
sweeping  branches  and  wide  spread  shade,  the  green  secluded 
glades,  the  absence  of  any  token  of  human  life,  the  timid  herds 
of  deer  gliding  about  amongst  the  fern  and  through  the  dis- 
tant vistas  like  graceful  and  noiseless  apparitions,  have  a 
peculiar  cliarm  of  their  own,  but  it  is  more  akin  to  a  pleasing 
melancholy  than  to  anything  like  gaiety. 

The  musing  philosophy  of  Jaijucs  would  seem  the  natural 
frame  of  mind  which  the  sylvan  and  majestic  scenery  of  an 
English  park  would  inspire  ;  but  there  was  neither  beauty  nor 
dignity  attached  to  the  flat  stiiteliness  of  such  a  park  as  that 
of  Lifl'ord  Grange.  Avenues  of  not  fine  trees,  clumps  of  small 
ugly  ones,  the  flat  unbroken  extent  on  every  side,  the  canal- 
looking  river  creeping  sullenly  through  it,  stamped  the  whole 
scene  with  indesL-ribable  gloom,  and,  seen  through  the  medium 
of  fog  and  rain,  would  have  presented  a  clicerless  aspect  t3  eyes 
more  favourably  inclined  towards  it  than  Gertrude's. 

If  the  view  had  seemed  to  her  ugly  from  her  bedroom 


74  LADY-BIRD. 

window  it  seemed  uglier  still  from  the  breakfast  room,  wliero 
she  waited  for  the  appearance  of  her  father  and  of  his  uncle — 
her  usual  companions  at  that  meal.  She  looked  at  the  tall 
windows  with  a  sort  of  aversion,  at  the  family  pictures  with 
resentment,  at  the  two  sofas  facing  one  another  on  each  side  of 
the  chimney  as  if  they  liad  been  her  enemies,  and  at  the  huge 
clock  which  recorded  the  passage  of  so  many  uninteresting 
liours  as  if  it  had  done  lier  an  injury.  "  I  had  much  rather  go 
into  a  convent  at  once,"  she  mentally  exclaimed,  "than  spend 
ray  life  in  this  way.  I  wish  Father  Liiford  would  not  laugh  at 
me  when  I  talk  of  it.  La  Trappe  itself  would  be  gay  com- 
pared to  this  place." 

At  that  moment  the  said  Father  came  into  the  room  with 
his  snufl"-box  in  his  hand,  his  stiif  hair — half  black  and  half 
grey — bristling  fiercely  round  his  head,  and  the  lines  in  his 
forehead  more  indented  than  ever.  His  slouching  gait,  his 
heavy  figure,  and  ill-made  cassock  made  him  appear  older  than 
he  really  was.  The  keen  expression  of  his  eyes  and  the 
strength  of  his  frame  often  surprised  those  who  would  have 
deemed  him  at  first  sight  a  feeble  old  man.  There  was  not 
apparently  any  love  lost  (to  use  a  common  expression)  between 
him  and  Gertrude.  If  there  was  any  reciprocal  affection  it 
certainly  did  not  appear  on  the  surface  of  their  intercourse. 
He  was  devotedly  attached  to  her  mother,  whom  he  had  known 
in  Spain  from  the  days  of  her  childhood.  To  her  he  was 
always  perfectly  kind  and  gentle ;  but  towards  others  his 
temper — without  being  bad — was  stiff,  and  his  modes  of  judg- 
ing and  of  dealing  Avith  people  naturally  severe.  Between 
him  and  his  nephew  there  vras  a  strange  mutual  forbearance, 
and  an  odd  kind  of  regard.  That  he  must  have  secretly  dis- 
approved and  lamented  his  indifference  to  religion,  his  want  ol 
practical  charity  to  the  poor,  his  omission  of  many  duties  and 
merely  decent  observance  of  others,  none  could  have  doubted 
who  were  acquainted  with  his  own  fervent  piety,  his  untiring 
devotion  to  the  spiritual  and  temporal  welfare  of  his  neigh- 
bours, and — under  a  rough  exterior — the  real  kindness  of  his 
heart  ;  but,  however  much  or  little  he  might  at  any  time  have 
remonstrated  with  him  in  private,  he  never  showed  his  disap- 
probation at  other  times,  or  spoke  of  him  and  of  his  faults-  to 
others.  On  his  children  he  inculcated  a  profound  respect  for 
their  father,  and  as  his  notions  of  passive  obedience  were  strict, 
he  was  always  much  annoyed  at  Gertrude's  independent  turn 
of  mind,  and  at  her  uutameable  determination  to  have  her 


LADY-BIRD.  7ft 

own  opinion,  at  least — if  she  could  not  have  her  own  way— -on 
every  subject. 

He  did  not  attempt  to  exercise  any  direct  authority  over 
her ;  "  he  was  ncitlicr  her  father  nor  her  tutor,"  he  said,  and 
did  not  wi.sh  to  interfere  with  what  was  the  business  of  her 
parents.  As  her  confessor  and  spiritual  guide,  his  province  was 
distinct  ;  and  though  his  natural  austerity  inclined  him,  per- 
haps, to  exhibit  to  her  more  of  the  stern  than  of  the  attractive 
aspect  of  religion — its  restraints  rather  than  its  joys, — there 
was  greater  kindness  and  indulgence  on  his  part,  and  respect 
and  submission  on  hers  than  would  have  been  easily  imagined 
by  those  who  witnessed  the  general  tenor  of  their  intercourse 
at  other  times,  when  he  freely  and  sarcastically  commented  on 
her  conduct,  and  she  was  barely  restrained  by  a  sense  of  duty 
from  returning  flippant  answers  to  his  remarks.  It  belonged 
to  her  character  to  be  in  awe  of  him  there  where  he  was 
always  just  and  gentle,  whereas  she  set  him  at  defiance  when 
he  was,  or  appeared  to  her,  harsh  and  despotic. 

On  the  morning  in  question  he  stood  before  the  chimney, 
warming  his  hands  at  the  fire,  and  turning  round  occasionally 
to  look  at  Gertrude,  who  was  impatiently  knocking  two  spoons 
together,  and  now  and  then  pushing  back  her  chair  an  inch  or 
two  from  the  table,  and  then  back  again  towards  it  with  a 
brus(|uerie  that  made  the  cups  rattle  and  the  urn  tremble. 
"  How  late  my  father  is  this  morning  ! "'  she  exclaimed  at 
last :  it  makes  one  lose  half  the  dny,  to  be  kept  waiting  in  this 
manner." 

"What  a  loss  to  the  world  one  of  your  half  days  must 
bo  !  "  remarked  Father  Liffurd.  looking  at  her  full  in  the  face 
from  under  his  bushy  grey  eyebrows. 

"  Not  to  the  world,  perhaps,  but  to  myself,"  she  answered, 
in  a  voice  of  suppressed  indignation. 

"•Why  now.  how  would  you  have  employed  the  last  half 
our  had  you  breakfasted  at  the  usual  time?  " 

"  In  reading,  I  suppose." 

"  Hum — in  reading  !     Oh,  very  good.     In  reading  what?" 

"  My  French  books,"  she  ijuickly  replied. 

It  happened  that  Father  Liftbrd  had  an  inveterate  dislike 
to  Frencli  literature,  and  the  sight  of  Moliere's  plays,  which 
Gertrude  was  everlastingly  poring  over,  tried  his  patience 
sorely.  ^ 

"  Your  French  books  ' — ay,  it  is  a  pity,  indeed,  that  you 
have  not  had  time  to  study  this  morning  '  Les  Fourberies  de 


76  LADY-BIRD. 

Scapin,'  the  last  thing  I  saw  you  reading.  Excellent  moral 
lessons  3011  must  draw  from  your  studies,  and  great  profit  you 
derive  from  them,  doubtless." 

Grcrtrude  coloured,  bit  her  lip,  and  looked  as  if  she  would 
have  liked  to  make  a  violent  answer ;  but  she  only  abruptly 
got  up  and  walked  to  the  window,  where  she  rapidly  played 
with  her  fingers  on  the  glass,  as  if  beating  time  to  her  agitated 
thoughts. 

'•  What  weather  !  "  she  ejaculated,  after  a  few  moments 
silence  ;  •'  what  torrents  of  rain  !  It  looks  more  like  the  end 
of  November  than  tlie  beginning  of  September.  How  caw 
mamma  keep  up  her  spirits  on  such  a  day  as  this? — always 
nailed  to  her  couch, — always  looking  on  that  one  view.  T 
wonder  she  does  not  turn  to  stone." 

"  Do  you,  indeed  ?  Much  you  understand  about  that. 
Take  care  you  do  not  get  hardened  quite  in  anotlier  way." 

'•  O,  as  to  being  hardened,  I  feel  myself  stiifening  every 
day.  I  shall  soon  be  a  sort  of  moving  statue.  Are  ^jou  not 
sometimes  afraid  of  being  petrified  here  ?  " 

He  shrusrsjed  his  shoulders,  and  betook  himself  to  the 
newspaper.  Mr.  Lifi"ord  walked  into  the  room  a  few  minutes 
afterwards,  and  Gertrude  poured  out  tea  and  interchanged  a 
few  words  with  him,  such  as  pass  between  people  who  must 
speak  to  one  another  for  form's  sake,  but  who  have  not  a 
single  tlionght  or  interest  in  common.  When  breakfast  was 
finished,  Mr.  Liflbrd  got  up,  and  assembling  together  the  letters 
and  newspapers  which  lay  on  the  table,  took  a  large  card  from 
among  them,  and  pointing  to  it,  said,  "  You  must  write  an 
excuse  in  answer  to  that,  Gertrude.  I  told  you  what  to  say 
the  last  time  they  sent  one ;  you  have  only  to  repeat  the  same 
thing  now." 

Gertrude  looked  at  the  card  and  saw  it  was  the  invitation 
that  Mrs.  Redmond  had  spoken  of  She  took  it  up,  and  her 
strong  wish  on  the  subject  overcoming  not  so  much  her  timid- 
ity as  her  reluctance  to  express  such  a  wish  to  her  father,  she 
looked  him  in  the  face  and  said,  '•  I  should  like  very  much  to 
go  to  this  breakfast.  I  wish  very  much  to  accept  this  invitation 
— pray  let  me  go."  He  seemed  surprised,  and  hardly  prepared 
for  such  a  re(|uest.  Not  that  he  had  the  least  thought  of 
granting  it,  but  he  had  never  thought  of  a  reason  to  give  on 
the  subject,  and  he  only  said,  "  Are  you  joking  ?  "  There  was 
so  little  that  looked  like  a  joke  in  Gertrude's  face  or  in  his, 
that  the  question  seemed  unnecessary.     "  No,  I  am  asking  you 


LAOr-BIRD.  7Y 

a  favour,"  she  replied,  but  there  was  not  anything  supplicating 
in  her  manner.  "Did  you  think  of  going  aJnncV'  he  coldly 
imjuircd.  8he  made  no  answer,  and  he  added,  "  You  must 
know  that  it  is  out  of  the  question,"  and  he  left  the  room. 
She  remained  for  a  moment  standing  near  the  chimney  with 
the  card  in  her  hand.     A.s  if  speaking  to  herself  she  said, 

"  I  will  ask  mamma  about  it." 

"  Your  mother  is  very  suffering  to-day,"  Father  Liff'ord 
observed,  ''  you  had  better  not  trouble  her  about  such  a 
thing." 

"  Very  well,  I  will  not.  but  will  yoit  do  so  when  she  ia 
better?" 

«  I  !_why  should  I  ?     What  is  this  all  about  ?  " 

"  It  is  about  my  going  to  this  breakfast  at  Woodlands,  and 
I  assure  you  that  it  would  be  a  good  work,  if  you  could  help 
me  about  it." 

"  A  good  work  to  get  you  to  a  ball  !      Is  the  child  mad  ?  " 

'•  No,  she  is  not  mad — but  she  may  go  mad,  if  people  don't 
take  care.      She  is  tired  to  death  of " 

"  Of  herself,  I  suppose,"  he  interrupted, "  and  no  wonder." 

"  Do  you  think  my  life  amusing  ?  " 

"  Were  you  sent  into  the  world  on  purpose  to  amuse 
yourself?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  as  far  as  I  can  see.  Don't  be  angry  with 
me,  Father  Liff'ord,  do  you  know  that  for  once  I  do  not  want 
to  quarrel  with  you  ?  " 

''  That  is  extraordinary.      What  has  caused  this  chaiigC--?  " 

"  Why,  sometimes  I  get  a  little  frightened  about  myself. 
I  am  afraid  of  getting  to  hate  everybody." 

"  It  is  on  your  knees  you  should  get  rid  of  that  feeling, 
my  child." 

'■  I  think  I  had  better  be  a  nun.  Father." 
"  What  ?  you  a  nun  !     Alas  for  the  convent  that  received 
you ! " 

"What  is  that  other  card  there  near  the  sugar-basin?" 

"  This  ?  It  is  the  same  piece  of  nonsense  as  the  other. 
These  good  foolish  people  have  invited  me?'' 

"  How  civil  they  are  ;  0  how  I  wish  we  were  all  more 
like  other  people." 

"  Like  what  people  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  tell  you,  you  would  be  shocked." 

'•  You  are  not  generally  afraid  of  shocking  me." 

''  But  what  I  mean  to  say  is  this.  Mamma  is  so  good  that 
Mc  is  not  like  other  peopl-c." 


T8  LADY-BIRD. 

"  Do  you  wish  she  were  less  good  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  wish  she  were  not  always  ill  and  in  pain."  He 
sighed  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  It  is  God's  will." 

"  But  it  is  not  His  will  that  papa  should  be  so  proud,  and 
so  harsh." 

"  How  dare  you  speak  in  that  way  of  your  father  ?  You 
deserve  to  be  treated  harshly,  you  are  a  rebellious  and  undu- 
tiful  child." 

"  There  is  an  end  of  it  !  Always  met  with  that.  Always 
told  that  I- am  wrong  and  others  right.  Well — this  cannot 
last  for  ever.  Some  day  or  other  I  must  take  my  own  fate  in 
my  own  hands,  and  then — "  This  was  said  to  herself,  but 
even  mentally  she  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  but  hurried 
away  to  her  usual  refuge,  a  large  deserted  library,  which  she 
called  her  den. 

It  was  a  lofty  room,  in  bad  repair ;  cobwebs  lay  undis- 
turbed against  the  angles  of  the  ceiling,  and  the  panels  of  the 
door  ;  dead  flies  and  torpid  butterflies  were  strewn  on  the 
broad  window-seats,  two  immense  globes  stood  between  the 
windows,  and  books  covered  with  dust  lined  the  shelves  of  the 
larnished  gold  and  white  bookcases  ;  a  gigantic  map  of  the 
country  hung  over  the  chimney.  It  was  a  dull,  desolate- 
looking  room,  but  yet  Gertrude  liked  it,  and  had  spent  in  it 
some  of  the  pleasantcst  hours  of  her  life.  There  were  neither 
chairs  nor  tables  in  it,  but  plenty  of  space  and  light.  She 
could  walk  there  with  that  rapid  pace  which  relieves  the  mind 
when  over-excited.  She  could  take  down  a  volume  from  the 
aforesaid  bookcase,  and  sit  for  hours  on  one  uf  the  window- 
seats,  alternately  reading  and  gazing  on  the  sky  and  the  ca- 
reering clouds  ;  or  watching  with  interest  the  struggles  of  a 
fly  in  some  spider's  web,  or  tiie  resuscitation  of  a  paralysed 
moth,  on  which  a  ray  of  sunshine  might  have  accidentally 
fallen. 

They  are  strange  things — those  long  solitary  hours  in 
early  youth — nothing  like  them  exists  later  in  life.  There  is 
such  ceaseless  thought  about  self,  with  such  small  self-know- 
ledge ;  such  intense  thinking,  with  so  little  reflection  :  such 
abstraction  of  mind,  with  such  sensibility  to  outward  impres- 
sions ;  such  worldliness  in  the  visions  which  the  mind  frames 
for  itself,  such  utter  disinterestedness  in  the  sacrifices  it  con- 
templates. Time  is  wasted  with  spendthrift  prodigality; 
hopes  erected  on  the  most  flimsy  foundations;  and  in  the 
magic  glass  in  which   these   imaginary  shapes  are  reflected, 


LADV-BIRU.  79 

everytliing  assumes   a  form  and  a  colouring  widely  differing 
from  reality. 

There  was   a  store   of  unemployed   energy  in   Gertrude's 
nharactcr  which  should  have  spent  itself  in  action.      Unfortu- 
nately, her  present  duties  were  all  of  a   passive   nature.     No 
labour  or  exertions  were   called  forth,  only  the   silent  endur- 
ance of  i^rivation.      Father    Lifford   had  once   attempted   to 
make  her  visit  the  poor,  and  teach  in  the  school  which  he  had 
established,  and   she   had  entered   on    these   occupations  with 
eagerness  and   delight.      They  were  beginning  to  tell  benefi- 
cially on  her  character,  when,  suddenly,  on  some  frivolous  pre- 
text of  a  fever  in   the  neighbourhood,  but  really  from  a  way- 
ward and  inconsistent  exercise  of  power,  her  father  interfered, 
and  desired  that  she  should  no  more  visit  the  school  and  the 
cottages,  though  he  neither  knew  nor  cared  that  she  wandered 
about   the  lanes,  and  in  and  out  of  Stonehouseleigh,  only  ac- 
companied   bv  her   maid.     Father   Lifford   told   her,  indeed, 
that  there  was  more  merit  in  obedience  than  in  exertioc, — in 
sacrifice  than  in  labour ;  but  the  vent  which  would  have  been 
afforded  for  the  flame  which  was  smouldering  under  a  heavy 
load  of  ennui  was  thus  at  once  stopped  up,  and  Gertrude  fell 
back  on   her  own   thoughts,  her  desultory  reading,  and   her 
dangerous  habit  of  dreaming  life  away.     She  spent  it  in  re- 
pinings  at  her  fate,  and  murmurs  against  her  father.      These 
feelings  fermented,  as  it  were,  in  her  heart  during  long  soli- 
tary hours,  and  when  she  appeared  at  meals,  there  was  a  dark, 
resentful  expression  in  her  eyes,  and  a   heavy  cloud  on   her 
brow.     The  next  day  her  mother  sent  for  her.     She  was  bet- 
ter  than  usual.      The  weather  had  changed,  a  south-westerly 
wind  was  breathing  its  sweet  influence  over  the  face  of  Na- 
ture, and   through   the  open  window  there  came  a  smell  of 
flowers.     The  couch  of  the  invalid  had  been  moved  near  to 
that   window,   and — propped    up    by    pillows— she    lay   with 
closed  eyes,  and  hands  joined  together,  enjoying  the  perfumed 
air  that  played  on  her  pale  cheek.     She  did  not  hear  her 
daughter  come  in.  and  remained  motionless  and  abstracted, 
while  Gertrude   took  a  low  stool,  and,  placing  it  between  the 
couch  and  the  window,  sat  down,  with  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands,  and  feeling  the  singular  repose  of  that  scene  operating 
strangely  on  her  mind.      Not  that  it  soothed  her  :  on  the  con- 
trary, she  felt  excited  ;   but  for  the  first  time  began  to  wonder 
over  her  mother's  fate,  and   to  ask  herself  if  she  had  ever  had 
any  of  the  thoughts  that  worked  in  her  own  brain, — any  of 
•«e  feelings  that  stirred  her  uwn  ueait  so  often. 


80  LADY-BIRD. 

She  raised  her  head  and  gazed  on  that  mother's  face,  and 
for  the  first  time  saw  that  it  was  beautiful,  and  like  her  own. 
And  she  knew  her  own  was  so — too  well  she  knew  it.  She 
thought,  as  if  it  were  for  the  first  time,  that  she  was  thai 
mother's  child. — that  the  same  blood  ran  in  their  veins — that 
their  features  were  formed  in  the  same  mould.  Were  their 
hearts  so  unlike? — were  their  minds  so  dissimilar? — had  the 
iron  hand  of  suffering  crushed  the  power  of  emotion  where  once 
it  might  have  existed? — or  were  other  hearts  unlike  her  own? 
— had  her  mother  never  felt  a  wish  be3'ond  that  couch,  to 
which  since  she  could  first  remember  her  she  had  been  nailed? 
— had  her  eyes  never  sparkled  with  anger  or  with  joy,  or  her 
lips  never  uttered  any  but  the  short  broken  sentences  that 
fell  from  them  now?  "0  mother,  mother,  were  you  ever 
young,  ever  thoughtless,  ever  rebellious  like  me? — had  you 
ever  longings  for  earth's  happiness  as  you  now  have  for 
Heaven's  bliss  ?  " 

These  words  were  uttefed  in  the  faintest  whisper,  but  the 
last  words  reached  Mrs.  LiflPord's  ear,  and  she  opened  her  eyes 
and  smiled,  which  was  a  rare  thing  for  her  to  do.  "  Heaven  !  " 
she  said  slowly,  "  Heaven  is  a  long  time  coming."  Then 
rousing  herself  as  from  a  dream,  she  put  out  her  hand,  and 
made  Gertrude  a  sign  to  come  nearer  to  her.  She  gazed  on 
her  face,  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  also  was  reading  new  things 
ill  her  child's  countenance  and  was  startled  at  what  she  saw 
there,  for  she  looked  at  her  with  a  kind  of  anxious  question- 
ing expression.  Grertrude  turned  away  and  said,  "  You  are 
much  better  to-day,  mamma;  I  never  saw  you  look  so  well, — 
you  have  quite  a  colour."  Her  mother  smiled  mournfully  ; 
she  lelt  the  red  spots  glowing  in  her  cheek,  and  knew  that 
they  were  burning  with  disease,  not  with  health.  But  in- 
creasing fever  gave  her  more  strength  than  usual,  and  for  once 
she  seemed  inclined  to  speak,  but  was  so  unused  to  hold  any 
conversation  with  her  daughter  beyond  a  few  words  of  en- 
dearment, that  she  did  nothing  but  press  her  hand  and  call 
her  names  of  fondness  in  Spanish. — till,  suddenly  rousing  her- 
self, and  leaning  on  her  elbow,  she  said,  ''  Gertrude,  you  arc 
very  happy.  I  hope?  " 

Gertrude  grew  crimson,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  hot 
tears  came  struggling  through  her  fingers.  Now  <vas  the  mo- 
ment to  speak  and  enlist  her  mother  on  her  side,  but  there  waa 
that  in  her  nature  which  made  her  prone  to  resist  and  slow  to 
complain.     However,  after  an  instant's  struggle  with  herself 


LADY-BIRD.  81 

ehe  said,  "  Mamma,  I  remember  that  twelve  years  ago  I  had 
such  a  wish  for  a  wax-doll,  that  I  lay  awake  at  nights 
thinking  of  it,  and  cried  whenever  I  parsed  the  shop  where  it 
stood.  But  I  would  not  ask  to  have  it,  from  a  proud  angry 
feeling  that  no  one  had  ever  thought  of  making  me  a  present 
of  a  doll.  I  told  Father  Lifford  of  this  feeling  of  anger,  and 
he  bade  me  go  directly  to  you  and  ask  for  the  doll.  I  did  not 
like  to  do  so,  but  was  obliged  to  obey.  Just  now  I  felt  vexed 
that  you  could  ask  if  I  was  happy,  and  I  could  not  bear  to 
speak  and  say  that  I  am  not.  ]>ut  I  will  speak  the  truth — I 
am  not  at  all  happy." 

''  No  !  "  ejaculated  the  mother,  "not  happy  with  youth  and 
health,  and  life  before  thee?  0  my  child,  that  I  could  teach 
thee  to  be  happy!"  After  a  pause  she  added  with  touching 
earnestness,  and  with  her  hand  on  her  forehead,  ••  But  there  xa 
so  much  confusion  there — here  in  my  heart  I  feel  it  all.  God 
knows  what  I  would  say — 0  my  G'od,  teach  my  child  what  is 
happiness."  Again  she  paused,  and  then  with  a  faint  smile 
said,  ''  What  would  make  thee  happy,  Gertrude  ? — not  a  wax 
doll  now?  "  Gertrude  put  her  mouth  close  to  her  mother's  ear, 
as  if  afraid  of  being  overheard,  and  whispered,  '•  To  go  to  the 
breakfast  at  Woodlands  would  makeujc  happy  ;  I  have  set  my 
heart  upon  it,  as  much  as  ever  I  did  as  a  child  on  a  wax-doll." 
Mrs.  Lifford  looked  surprised  and  puzzled ;  she  held  her 
temi)les  in  her  hands  as  if  collecting  lier  thoughts. 

"A  breakfast,  darling  !  But  who  could  take  thee  there? 
My  Gertrude,  it  is  impossible." 

"  Mamma,  they  have  asked  Father  Lifford — persuade  hi7}i 
to  go  and  to  take  me."  The  boldness  of  this  scheme  struck 
her  mother  silent  with  astonishment ;  she  shook  her  head,  but 
Gertrude  went  on. 

'•  Mamma,  I  vn/s/.  have  some  change — some  amusement. 
I  cannot  bear  the  life  I  lead  any  longer ;  I  am  sure  that  papa 
hates  me." 

■■•  0  child,  child,  down  upon  thy  knees,  and  ask  to  be  foi*- 
given  for  such  a  thought !  Pr«y,  pray^  there  is  no  safety 
against  such  thoughts  except  in  prayer  But  what  has  thy 
father  done  to  thee?  How  dreadful!"  She  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross  on  her  daughter's  forehead,  and  sighed  deeply. 

"  Do  not  look  so  frightened,  mamma.  I  did  not  say  I  hated 
him.  0  Heaven  forbid  !  and  perhaps  I  am  wrong,  an'd  he  does 
not  hate  me  ;  but  that  he  does  not  care  for  me  is  certain — 
nobody  does  but  you,  mamma — you  do,  perhaps.     I  have  not 

6 


82  LADY-BIRD. 

alway-ri  tliouglit  so,  but  somehow  or  other  I  have  felt  to-day  as 
if  you  did." 

"  Hast  thou  then  really  supposed  that  thy  mother  ?  .  .  .  . 
0  my  long  and  bitter  sufferings,  my  palsied  limbs,  my  dim  and 
confused  memory,  my  faltering  tongue,  have  you  indeed  done 
this?  It  was  just, — it  was  right ;  but  now  I  thank  thee,  0  my 
God,  that  the  veil  has  been  lifted, — that  she  has  had  a  glimpse 
into  the  heart  that  beats  under  the  load  that  it  must  bear,  aye, 
and  loves  to  bear  !"  she  exclaimed  with  increasing  energy,  and 
talking  in  Spanish,  which  she  always  did  when  strongly  ex- 
cited. She  fell  back  exhausted,  and  a  paroxysm  of  pain  en- 
suing. Gertrude  was  obliged  to  call  the  maid  who  usually  at- 
tended her  mother,  and  to  leave  her  to  her  care. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Lifford  was  somewhat  better  again,  hut 
she  did  not  send  for  her  daughter.  She  employed  that  inter- 
val of  ease  in  two  convers/itions,  the  first  of  which  was  with 
Father  Lifford.  When  he  sat  down  by  her  couch,  and  was 
preparing  as  usual  to  read  to  her  out  of  a  Spanish  book  of  de- 
votion, she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  said,  "  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you,  Father."  He  removed  his  spectacles,  took 
a  pinch  of  snuif,  and  put  himself  in  a  listening  attitude. 
•'There  is  something  I  have  to  ask  you,  that  I  have  some  hope 
that  you  will  do  for  me,  even  though  you  may  dislike  it  very 
much."  He  looked  up  quickly,  and  she  continued,  "lam 
anxious  about  Gertrude." 

"  So  am  I,"  he  gruffly  ejaculated. 

"  She  is  not  happy.  The  life  she  leads  is  a  dull  one  for  a 
young  girl — you  know  it  is,  Father,"  she'  added  earnestly,  as 
he  knit  his  brows  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  don't  say  it  is  gay,  but  what's  the  use  of  talking  ?   There 
is  nothing  to  be  done.     It  will  be  better,  I  suppose,  when  Ed 
gar  comes  home." 

'•'She  has  set  her  heart  upon  going  to  this  fete,  this  break- 
fast at  Woodlands.  That  young  heart  of  hers  will  overflow 
with  bitterness,  if  she  is  always  refused  every  amusement, 
every  pleasure  wiiich  her  imagination  paints  to  her  in  glowing 
colours,  and  mine  aches,  dear  Father,  when  I  think  of  my  help- 
less state, — my  utter  incapacity " 

•  Come,  come;  don't  complain.  You  have  borne  your  suf- 
ferings well  hitherto.  Do  not  let  this  foolish  girl's  fancies 
make  you  repine  at  God's  will." 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  murmur  !  i3ut  when  I  am 
able   to  think, — when  an   interval  in   my  suff"erings   gives  mo 


I 


LADY-BIRD.  83 

time  for  rcflootion,  then  I  become  anxious  about  the  future 
character,  and  the  ])robablc  fate  of  uiy  child,  and  I  tremble 
as  I  muse  on  it.  Authority  will  do  nothing  with  her  ;  cold- 
ness and  indifi'ercnce  still  less  ;  her  heart  must  be  softened — 
worked  upon — and  won, — and  yoii.  must  do  this." 

"I  must  do  it ! — A  right  proper  instrument  you  have  fixed 
upon,  indeed,  for  the  purpose  ;  a  cross  and  crabbed  old  man 
like  me  !" 

"  0  Father,  Futher,  belie  not  your  own  heart." 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  of  my  heart.  I  have  a  conscience,  I 
hope,  and  a  soul  to  save, — but  a  heart  that  is  to  win  hearts, 
phoo,  phoo,  that  is  all  nonsense  !  Send  for  the  child  yourself 
— give  her  now  and  then  a  mother's  kiss,  and  leave  me  to 
teach  her  her  duty, — that  is  my  business,  and  I  xoilL  attend  to 
it." 

"  Are  you  going  to  refuse  me  the  first  favour  I  have  ever 
asked  of  you  ?  " 

"  But  in  the  name  of  patience  what  is  it?  " 

"  Something  that  you  will  at  first  protest  you  will  never 
do ;  that  you  will  think  ridiculous,  and  even  wrong  per- 
haps  " 

"  You  are  going  to  ask  me  to  do  something  wrong  !  What 
has  come  over  you?  " 

"  It  may  seem  wrong  at  first  sight ;  but  depend  upon  it, 
dear  Father,  there  may  be  more  merit  in  it  than  in  your  no- 
blest actions, — in  your  greatest  austerities." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  austerities — T  never  do 
noble  actions.  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about.  I 
never  knew  you  so  foolish  before  !  " 

"  Listen  to  me,  I  entreat  you,  and  do  not  be  too  much 
startled.  You  must  go  to  this  breakfast  at  Woodlands,  and 
take  Gertrude  there" 

"  0  now  I  must  send  for  the  doctor.  You  had  better 
ring  for  a  composing  draught,  my  dear  child.  You  are  not 
yourself" 

"  I  never  was  so  much  myself;  my  thoughts  and  my  mind 
are  clearer  than  usual.  I  have  reflected  deeply ;  something 
must  be  done  to  change  the  current  of  that  child's  feelings, — 
to  soften  her  heart, — to  make  her  see  that  we  understand  her." 

"  It  is  very  easy  to  understand  her.  She  is  a  headstrong 
girl,  who  has  set  her  foolish  heart  on  a  piece  of  worldly  dissi- 
pation and  vanity,  and  y.iu  are  a  foolish  mother,  bent  on  in- 
dulging her." 


84  LADy-BIRD. 

"  Father,  you  knoio  me, — you  know  where,  with  all  itj» 
faults,  its  weakness,  its  past  infidelities,  its  present  unfaithful- 
ness to  grace, — you  know  where  my  heart,  and  its  hopes  and 
its  affections  are  set.  He  whom  I  should  have  loved  alone. — 
He  who  had  claimed  me  from  my  infancy,  and  whose  conse 
crated  spouse  I  should  have  been, — He  whom  I  forsook  in  an 
instant  of  infatuation,  but  who  mercifully  appointed  nie  a  fate 
which  has  been  a  continual  safeguard  from  the  world  I  had 
rashly  sought,  and  a  school  in  which  to  learn  the  lesson  he  as- 
signs me, — He  knows  that  could  I  place  my  child  in  His 
everlasting  arms  at  once  and  forever,  safe  upon  earth  and  on 
her  way  to  heaven,  my  soul  would  be  at  peace.  Or  if  that 
high  vocation  was  denied,  could  I  see  her  useful  and  contented 
in  a  home  of  her  own,  no  worldly  pleasures  or  advantages 
would  I  covet  for  her.  I  care  not  that  the  eyes  of  men  should 
look  on  her  rare  beauty,  that  jewels  should  gleam  on  her  brow, 
or  her  eyes  win  the  love  and  admiration  of  crowds.  I  want 
no  riches  for  her — no  greatness — no  splendour,  but  peace  of 
heart  and  gentleness  of  spirit, — the  love  of  God,  and  of 
man." 

"And  is  this — what  do  you  call  this  thing? — tliis  break- 
fast at  Woodlands  to  bring  her  to  this  blessed  state  of  mind  'I  '' 

•'  You  must  think  me  absurd  ;  but  have  patience  with  lue, 
bear  with  me.  I  am  so  helpless — so  weak  ;  but  I  have  thought 
much  about  this, — I  have  asked  myself  if  to  send  her  for  once 
into  a  new  and  exciting  scene,  which  might  nuike  her  hon-ie  ap- 
pear to  her  even  more  dull  than  before,  and  increase  her  de- 
sire to  visit  such  again,  was  either  wise  or  prudent,  and  the 
answer  my  conscience  has  given  me  is  this  : — •  Did  sho  not 
long  for  the  pleasures  which  have  hitherto  been  denied  her? 
Did  not  she  picture  to  herself  in  glowing  colours  the  enjoy- 
ments she  is  debarred  from  ?  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should 
thrust  them  upon  her  !  But  I  know  that  she  docs  long  for 
them,  and  that  her  spirit  rebels  against  the  forced  seclusion  of 
her  life.  The  light  of  worldly  amusements  cannot  be  so  in- 
jurious to  a  young  mind,  as  the  exaggerated  pictures  which  it 
Ireams  of  them.  We  cannot  make  her  existence  agreeable 
at  home,  you  know  it  but  too  well.  Sickness  and  suffering  are 
bad  companions  for  a  child,  and  though  God  in  uis  boundless 
mercy  has  opened  to  me  sources  of  bliss  which  make 
me  sometimes  exclaim  in  the  words  of  a  French  writer,  "/<? 
souJJ're  a  en  mourir^  et  cependant  ma  vie  est  un  Paradis  an- 
ticijj6"  I  cannot  expect  that  young  heart  at  once  to  under- 


LADY-BIRDt  85 

stand  what  the  experience  of  life — and  a  life  of  singular  trials 
— has  by  slow  degrees  led  me  to  feel." 

Mrs  Lifiord  threw  herself  back  on  her  pillow  exhausted,  but 
soon  rousing  lierself  again,  continued  :  '"  If  I  obtain  for  Gier- 
trude  the  fullihnent  of  her  wish,  she  will  see  a  mark  of  afiection 
in  this  effort ;  but  she  does  not  know  what  it  costs  me,  for  I 
siust  obtain  it  from  one 0  Father,  not  yet  entirely  sub- 
dued is  this  proud  heart  of  mine.  It  is  so  painful  to  ask  hiiti, 
anything  !  " 

"  Like  mother,  like  child,'   the  old  man  gravely  said. 

"  0  do  not  say  that — do  not  say  that !  "  she  cried.  '•  Let 
me  not  think  that  she  too  will  have  to  pass  through  a  fiery 
trial  on  her  way  to  peace  and  joy.  That  grace  must  fortxi  its 
way  into  Jwr  heart  through  the  breach  anguish  opens,  and  over 
the  scattered  ruins  of  every  earthly  affection.  But  you  will 
grant  my  prayer — you  will  go  to  Woodlands." 

Father  Lifford  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair,  again  took 
snuff,  and  then — like  a  man  who  brings  out  his  words  under 
the  influence  of  the  rack  or  the  thum-screw — he  said,  "  My 
dear  child.  I  am  not  come  to  my  present  age.  or  have  read  good 
books  all  my  life,  without  learning  that  to  do  what  one  hates 
is  better  than  to  please  oneself.  I  also  know  that  a  good  sort 
of  woman  like  you  may  better  undei'stand  foolish  young  girls 
than  an  old  man  like  me  ;  so  that,  for  aught  I  know,  you  may 
be  riglit  and  I  may  be  wrong.  I  also  hope  that  I  have  no  fear 
of  ridicule,  and  if  you  like  to  expose  yourself  to  it  by  sending 
a  young  lady  into  the  world  in  the  charge  of  an  old  priest,  it 
may  be  a  wholesome  mortification  for  the  young  lady  and  for 
the  old  priest :  so  you  may  please  yourself  about  it.  If  her 
father  gives  his  permission,  I  will  drive  to  this  place  with  your 
daughter.  I  will  sit  like  an  old  bear  in  a  corner  of  the 
grounds  ;  and  when  she  has  derived  from  the  entertainment 
all  the  benefits  you  anticipate,  or  when  it  comes  to  a  natural 
end — which  I  presume  such  things  do — I  will  bring  her  home 
again  ;  but  only  be  prepared  for  the  impression  it  will  create 
that  the  girl's  parents  are  fools,  and  the  old  man  a  greater  fool 
than  them  :  but,  as  I  said  before.  I  don't  care — it  will  be  as 
good  a  mortification  as  any  other." 

'•  I  know  that  it  will  be  a  mortification  to  you;  but  as  to 
its  beino;  ridiculous  I  cannot  ai>ree  with  you.  You  are  Mr. 
Lifford's  uncle — Gertrude's  nearest  relation  There  is  nothing 
unbecoming  in  an  ecclesiastic  going  occasionally  into  society, 
and  who  would  watch  over  my  child  with  so  paternal  an  eye  ?  ' 


86  LADY-BIRD. 

"  Tusli,  tush !  Don't  talk  to  me  of  paternal  eyes,  or  any  of 
that  nonsense.  I  sliall  not  watch  her  at  all.  I  will  see  she 
gets  there — and  if  I  can,  that  she  comes  back  ;  but  nothing 
else  will  I  undertake — and  this,  remember,  I  will  only  do 
once  " 

"She  will  make  acquaintances,  and  may  have  hereafter  op- 
portunities of  going  out  with  others." 

"  Much  good  it  will  do  her,"  he  murmured  between  hia 
teeth. 

■'  You  do  see  something  true  in  what  I  have  said  ?  " 

'•  I  see  you  mean  well,  and  I  am  not  sure  enough  that  you 
are  wrong  to  oppose  you  ;  it  may  be  for  the  best,  and  so  let 
nothing  more  be  said  about  it.  It's  of  no  use  to  hold  under  a 
man's  nose  the  physic  he  is  to  take." 

Late  that  day,  when  Mr.  LifFord  paid  his  accustomed  visit 
to  his  wife,  instead  of  the  few  common-place  sentences  which 
were  habitually  exchanged  between  them,  a  scene  took  place 
8uch  as  had  not  occurred  for  years.  The  pent-up  sufferings  of 
a  woman's  heart  found  vent  in  that  hour.  Strange,  that  the 
question  of  a  girl's  going  to  a  breakfast  or  not  should  have 
called  up  the  expression  of  a  .sorrow,  of  a  passionate  emotion, 
of  something  bordering  on  resentment,  which  had  remained 
silent  for  j-ears  Mrs.  Lifford,  soon  after  her  marriage,  had 
understood  her  fate,  and  quietly  accepted  it — at  times  almost 
rejoiced  in  it.  She  had  done  violence  to  her  conscience  by 
marrying.  Her  will  had  first  been  over-ruled  by  that  of  her., 
relations.  The  heart,  which  had  clearly  recognised  its  voca- 
tion to  a  different  and  higher  destiny,  had — half  in  weakness, 
half  under  a  transient  impression  wrought  on  her  fancy— sur- 
rendered itself  to  an  earthly  love  ;  and  when,  after  a  few 
months  of  something  which  she  supposed  must  be  happiness — 
but  scarcely  felt  to  be  so — she  suddenly  awoke  to  the  convic- 
tion of  her  husband's  utter  indifference,  and  accidentally  dis- 
covered that  the  little  affection  his  nature  was  susceptible  of 
had  been  previously  expended  on  another,  that  it  was  out  of 
vanity  alone  that  he  had  married  her.  that  the  memory  of  his 
first  love  occupied  the  only  spot  in  his  heart  which  was  open 
to  anything  like  feeling,  and  that  indifference  to  herself  was 
gradually  changing  into  aversion — she  experienced  a  strange 
sensation,  in  which  something  like  satisfaction  was  combined 
with  grief  and  shame.  Perhaps  it  had  a  kind  of  affinity  with 
the  sort  of  relief  which  a  criminal  feels  when  his  guilt  is  dis- 
covered, and  the  necessity  for  concealment  is  at  an  end.     She 


LADY-BIRD.  8Y 

had  not  g.ained  the  earthly  happiness  she  had  sought  by  doing 
violence  to  her  convictions,  and  it  was  a  kind  of  relief  to  her 
to  find  the  hand  of  God  upon  her  still,  even  in  the  form  of 
chastisement.  When  its  weight  grew  heavier,  and  pain  and 
solitude  became  her  portion,  still  more  distinctly  did  this  feel- 
ing rise  in  her  mind.  Hers  was  no  common  destiny,  and  no 
common  love  had  ordained  it.  Deep,  fervent,  intense  expres- 
sions of  gratitude  had  been  poured  forth  from  that  lonely  couch 
during  long  vigils  of  pain,  and  days  of  incessant  suffering,  for 
a  fate  which  had  in  some  sense  restored  to  her  the  vocation 
she  had  lost  ;  but  in  a  woman's  heart — although  grace  may 
master,  sway,  rule,  and  direct  it,  though  it  opens  to  her  a 
world  of  bliss  which  throws  human  happiness  at  an  immeasur- 
able distance — there  remains  (except  in  the  case  of  saints) 
something  of  infirmity,  something  of  self-pity,  something  which 
is  neither  a  wish  nor  regret,  but  which  looks  like  them  at  mo- 
ments, and  would  appear  so  to  those  who  do  not  readily  com- 
prehend the  mysteries  of  the  human  heart. 

And  so  it  was  in  that  hour ;  that  pale  dying  woman  (for 
dying  she  was,  although  months  and  even  years  might  yet 
elapse  before  her  death)  could  look  upon  the  cold,  handsome, 
unexpressive  face  of  her  husband,  and  think  how  he  had  slight- 
ed, neglected  and  injured  her,  and  not  feel  one  touch  of  re- 
sentment or  of  regret — day  after  day  slie  had  done  so.  It  was 
her  daily  meditation,  after  his  short,  formal  visits  to  her.  how 
wonderful  God's  ways  had  been  with  her,  how,  by  Ilis  divine 
art,  Ife  had  turned  the  transient  joys  she  had  snatched  at  into 
pangs,  which  had  proved  so  many  stepping-stones  from  the 
earth  which  they  obscured,  to  the  Heaven  which  they  disclosed. 
But  this  day,  when  she  endeavoured  to  find  the  way  to  his 
heart  in  behalf  of  her  daughter,  and  found  its  avenues  impene 
trably  closed — when,  in  answer  to  her  pleadings  for  a  permos- 
sion,  which  was  all  she  wanted,  that  Gertrude  should  occasion- 
ally have  some  little  change  and  variety  in  her  life,  and.  in 
particular,  that  he  would  allow  the  carriage  to  take  her  and 
Father  LifFord  to  Woodlands  on  the  day  of  the  breakfast,  he 
returned  a  short  negative,  and  even  sneered  at  the  consent 
which  his  vmcle  had  given  to  the  mother's  request,  then  that 
mother  did  not  look  at  him  calmly.  There  was  no  anger  in 
her  face,  but  an  intense  feeling  of  some  kind.  With  her  hands 
clasped  and  her  cheek  burning  with  excitement,  she  reiterated 
her  request.  When  he  turned  away  as  if  weary  of  the  subject,  and 
prepared  to  leave  the  room,  she  spoke  to  him  with  a  voice  and 


88  LADY-BIRD. 

m  a  manner  that  obliged  him  to  turn  back  and  to  listeru 
What  she  said  cannot  easily  be  written  ;  what  she  felt  not 
many  could  understand.  That  she  gained  her  point  some 
might  wonder  at,  who  do  not  know  what  an  unexpected  burst 
of  passionate  emotion  can  efiect  on  the  coldest  and  hardest 
hearts,  when  it  takes  them  by  surprise.  Her  sentences  were 
broken,  her  words  strange  and  abrupt,  her  countenance  some- 
what wild  ;  for  such  excitement  was  too  powerful  for  so  feeble 
a  frame.  When  her  husband — half  afraid,  perhaps,  of  making 
her  dangerously  ill  by  opposition,  disturbed,  if  not  touched  by 
her  allusions  to  the  past,  with  not  enough  affection  for  his 
daughter  to  make  him  consider  the  subject  as  it  concerned  her 
welfare — gave  the  desired  permission  as  he  would  have  un- 
graciously granted  a  holiday  to  his  groom — she  sighed  deeply, 
and  when  the  door  was  shut  upon  him,  turned  her  face  towards 
the  wall  and  wept  bitterly. 

How  little  persons  know,  and  especially  young  persons,  of 
the  trials  of  others!  How  they  will  exact,  and  then  not 
appreciate  what  has,  perhaps,  been  effected  at  an  amount  of 
anxiety  and  of  pain  which  they  do  not  dream  of  Balzac,  in 
his  powerful  tale  "  Eugenie  Grandet,"  shows  one  the  struggles, 
the  anxieties,  the  art,  the  passionate  solicitude  with  which  the 
miser's  daughter  procures  the  few  little  common  place  comforts 
with  which  she  supplies  the  orphan  cousin,  who  has  come  to 
reside  under  her  father's  roof — the  spoilt  and  now  forsaken 
child  of  fortune,  who  uses  without  noticing,  or  squanders  with- 
out enjoying  what  she  has  purchased  or  begged  in  fear  and 
trembling,  what  she  has  obtained  at  the  price  of  scenes  which 
have  made  her  heart  quail  and  her  cheek  blanch.  And  the 
])icture  is  true  to  the  life ;  every  day  it  is  exemplified  in 
domestic  life.  Secret  acts  of  heroism  are  performed,  which 
look  so  easy  and  common-place,  that  no  one  would  guess  the 
secret  prayers,  the  previous  struggles,  the  amount  of  resolution 
they  have  required  ;  and  they  pass  by  without  comment  and 
without  praise. 

When  Mrs.  Lifford  told  her  daughter  that  she  was  to  go  to 
the  Woodlands'  breakfast,  the  girl's  eyes  sparkled  with  de- 
light, and  she  fondly  kis.sed  her  mother  ;  but  if  she  had  guessed 
what  that  mother  had  suffered  the  day  before  to  open  to  her 
that  prospect  of  amusement,  there  would  doubtless  have  been 
something  more  gentle  in  her  voice  and  more  tender  in  her 
kiss ;  but,  to  know  it,  she  must  have  learnt  what  it  was  better 
for  her  not  to  learn,  and  have  understood  what  she  will  one  day, 


LADY-BIKD,  89 

perliaps,    too   well   understand, — her  motner's   fate    and   her 
father's  character. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  And  tlion  I  met  wifli  one 
Who  was  my  fiite  ;  lie  saw  me  and  I  knew 
'Twas  love  tli:il  like  swift  lifrlit'iiirig  darted  tlirmigh 
My  spirit;  ere  I  tlmiight,  my  lieart  wius  won 
Spell-bound  to  his,  for  ever  and  for  ever." 

So  many  chapters  in  novels  begin  witli  descriptions  of 
beautiful  days,  that  it  seems  useless  to  add  another  to  tliose 
already  written  by  abler  painters  in  words  ;  but  to  speak  of 
flowers,  of  birds,  of  blue  sky,  and  of  sunshine — of  fleecy  clouds 
and  soft  breezes,  at  certain  times  and  on  certain  occasions,  has 
its  use,  however  hackneyed  these  expressions  may  be.  It  is  to 
the  mind  what  the  recitative  in  an  Italian  opera  is  to  the  ear, 
or  a  frame  to  a  painting.  It  brings  the  thoughts  into  tune  ;  it 
calls  up  a  variety  of  pictures,  differing  according  to  the  iiu 
agination  of  the  reader — to  the  scenes  with  which  his  memory 
is  stored — to  the  impressions  of  which  he  is  susceptible.  "  The 
day  was  beautiful." — Has  not  every  one  at  once,  before  his 
eyes,  some  picture  that  appeals  to  his  feelings  or  his  fancy, 
that  suggests  a  trani  of  remembrances,  that  brings  tears  into 
his  eyes,  or  a  smile  on  his  lips? 

The  day  was  beautiful  on  which  Gertrude  Lifford  opened 
her  window  to  examine  the  aspect  of  the  sky,  and  ascertain 
that  it  did  not  threaten  to  interfere  with  what  she  called  her 
first  day  of  pleasure.  No  such  shade  marred  the  face  of  the 
heaven.  It  was  fair  and  bright,  and  hazy  in  the  distance — an 
autumnal  p]nglish  sky — and  even  the  flat  extent  of  the  park 
looked  less  ugly  than  usual,  as  it  showed  its  green  surface  in 
the  liglit  of  tlie  early  morning.  Gertrude  was  satisfied,  but 
her  excited  spirits  would  not  sufter  her  to  sit  still.  The  hours 
seemed  interminably  long  till  she  could  reasonably  begin  to 
dress.  Her  dress  had  been  a  source  of  great  anxiety  to  her  ; 
and  as  Madame  de  Stael  was  heard  to  say  that  she  would 
have  been  willing  to  barter  all  her  literary  successes  for  the 
gratification  of  experiencing  for  a  single  day  the  pleasure  of 
being  beautiful,  so  Gertrude  would  almost  have  given  up  her 


90  LADY-BIRD. 

boauty  for  the  sake  of  knowing  that  she  would  be  dressed  like 
other  people — for  the  assurance  of  not  appearing  old-fashioned 
and  ridiculous ;  for,  between  her  mother,  who  had  not  been 
out  anywhere  for  years,  and  never  but  in  Spain,  and  the 
milliner  at  Stonehouseleigh,  whose  knowledge  of  the  fashions 
was  limited,  she  felt  great  apprehensions  as  to  the  result. 

But  she  need  not  have  done  so  ;  she  was  not  dressed  like 
other  people  certainly,  but  if  vanity  were  the  cause  of  her  un- 
easiness she  might  have  been  content.  A  piece  of  fine  raro 
Indian  muslin  delicately  embroidered  in  white — which  had 
made  part  of  her  mother's  trousseau,  and  had  never  been  made 
up — was  now  turned  into  a  gown  for  her.  A  )uagnificent  man- 
tilhi  of  old  Spanish  lace  was  her  shawl.  A  Leghorn  straw-hat 
witli  a  wreath  of  poppies  and  corn-flowers,  which,  with  the  skill 
in  such  handiwork  ac(|uired  in  a  convent,  Mrs.  Liftord  had 
made  for  her,  and  a  chain  of  elaborately  carved  coral  going 
twice  round  her  neck,  completed  her  attire.  When  she  went 
into  her  mother's  room  she  found  her  sitting  up  on  her  couch, 
with  various  cases  of  anti(|ue  workmanship  smelling  of  foreign 
perfumes  by  her  side.  From  one  she  took  out  some  diamond 
rings,  from  another  a  pair  of  bracelets  of  a  curious  Moorish 
shape,  which  she  put  on  her  fingers  and  her  wrists.  Then  she 
gave  her  a  fan  with  highly  finished  paintings  and  richly  orna- 
mented handle,  and  showed  her  how  to  hold  it.  Then  she 
bade  her  go  to  the  foot  of  the  couch  that  she  might  look  at 
her ;  and  as  she  stood  there  in  all  her  picturesque  beauty, 
with  her  youth  and  her  brilliant  dress,  and  the  exultation  in 
her  eyes,  she  seemed  a  strange  vision  in  that  chapel-like  room 
so  full  of  holy  pictures  and  religious  ornaments,  so  dark  for 
the  sake  of  its  suffering  inmate,  so  silent  and  so  still,  that  those 
who  entered  it  instinctively  lowered  their  voices,  and  trod 
lightly  on  the  soft  carpet. 

"  Gertrude,"  said  her  mother,  fixing  her  eyes  on  her  daugh- 
ter's face,  ''  The  world  is  not  happiness." 

"  Perhaps  not,  mamma,  but  it  is  pleasure." 

"  I  too  wciit  to  a  ball  once,  and  I  carried  that  fan  in  m 
hand.     It  is  a  long  time  ago.     It  was  at  the  time  of  my  sis- 
ter's mpirriage.     She  has  died  since,     Her  name  was  Assunta 
Strange,  was  it  not?     Mine  is  Angustia.      I  am  glad  they  did 
not  call  you  so,  Gertrude." 

''  Yes,  dearest  mamma  ;  see  how  well  I  use  my  fan.  May 
I  dance,  mamma?  " 

"  Dearest,  you  have  never  learnt ;  you  do  not  know  how." 


LADY-BIRD.  91 

"  I  dul  not  know  how  to  do  tliis  a  moment  ago,"  she  an- 
Bwerod,  phiying  again  with  the  fan  in  the  true  Spanish  fashion, 
and  then  coinii)g  round  to  her  mother's  side  she  bent  over  her 
fondly,  and  said,  ••  To-morrow  I  shall  tell  you  if  the  world  has 
been  pleasure  to  me.  Do  be  well  to-morrow,  mamma ;  you 
are  much  better  than  you  wx're.  There  was  a  time  when  you 
could  not  have  exerted  yourself  as  much  as  vou  have  done 
lately." 

"  Heaven  bless  thee  ! "  was  her  mother's  only  answer. 

"  The  carriage  is  at  the  door,"  the  maid  whispered. 

"  Mamma,  must  I  say  good-bye  to  papa?" 

Mrs.  Lifford.  winced,  as  it  were,  at  the  question,  looked  at 
her  daughtei",  and  seemed  to  hesitate.  "  Yes,"  she  said  at 
last.  "Yes;  come  this  way  first ;  let  me  arrange  those  two 
curls  that  are  straying  on  thy  neck.  Throw  thy  head  a  little 
back,  and  take  these  orange-blossoms  with  thee.  That  will 
do ;  go  to  him, — he  may  remember  the  bull-fight  at  Seville." 

"Shall  I  ask  him  if  "he  does?" 

"  0  no,  no  !  "  the  mother  answered,  with  a  shudder,  and 
with  another  kiss  dismissed  her  child. 

Into  a  room  nearly  as  sombre  as  the  one  she  had  left,  but 
with  nothing  in  it  to  please  the  eye  or  the  feelings,  that  vision 
of  youth  and  beauty  walked.  In  the  attitude  her  mother  had 
placed  her  in,  with  the  weapons  she  had  armed  her  with,  into 
her  father's  presence  she  went,  with  a  lighter  step  and  a  more 
confiding  spirit  than  usual.  He  looked  up  from  the  table 
where  he  was  examining  some  accounts,  and  said  in  a  tone  of 
annoyance. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  she  answered,  in  a  faint  voice. 

"  Then  why  do  you  come  here  ? " 

"  I  really  don't  know." 

"  It  would  be  better,  in  that  case,  not  to  interrupt  me." 

"  I  will  not  do  so  again,"  she  said,  and  left  the  i-oom. 
A  servant  met  her  at  the  door,  and  told  her  that  her  uncle 
was  in  the  carriage.      She  hastened  after  him,  jumped  into  the 
heavy,  old-fashioned  coach,  and  slowly  and  steadily  they  pro- 
ceeded to  Woodlands. 

Father  Lifl^ord  was  making  a  great  efi"ort — a  real  sacrifice 
— in  thus  putting  himself  out  of  the  way,  in  going  out  of  all 
his  usual  habits,  and  amongst  strangers.  It  was  an  act  of  true 
kindness  ;  but  his  nature  was  too  stiff  to  mould  itself  easily  to 
Buch  au  effort.     He   could  do  such  a  thing  because  on   the 


02  LADY-BIRD. 

whole  he  thought  it  right,  though  at  the  same  time  he  did  not 
feel  quite  sure  of  it.  That  uncertainty,  not  as  to  his  good  in- 
tentions, but  as  to  the  wisdom  of  his  unselfishness,  gave  him  a 
certain  degree  of  uneasiness  which  added  to  his  intense  dislike 
of  the  whole  aifiiir.  He  had  ensconced  himself  in  the  corner 
of  the  coach,  and  fenced  himself  round  with  newspapers  and 
books,  as  if  he  were  about  to  take  a  long  journey.  First  he 
eaid  his  office,  which  lasted  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  then  took 
up  a  newspaper,  and  then  another,  without  turning  round  or 
speaking.  He  did  not  like  a  draught,  and  only  one  of  the 
windows  was  let  down.  Gertrude,  who  found  it  hot,  changed 
her  place  to  the  one  opposite,  so  as  to  get  the  air  which  blew 
from  the  south-west.  It  fanned  her  cheek,  and  disarranged 
her  hair,  which  did  not  signify,  for  it  curled  of  itself;  and 
taking  oS  her  bonnet,  she  drew  over  her  head  the  hood  of  her 
mantilla.  Father  Lifford  accidentally  looked  up  from  his 
newspaper,  and  the  frown  on  his  brow  at  that  moment  relaxed 
a  little.  For  some  time  slie  was  not  conscious  that  he  was 
looking  at  her,  but  was  busily  employed  in  twisting  her  coral 
chain  into  twenty  different  shapes.  The  old  nian  seemed  to 
dwell  on  thoughts  which  her  face  and  her  dress  had  suggested 
to  him  ;  and  when  she  observed  that  he  was  watching  her.  and 
said  gently,  "  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you.  Father  Lifford," 
and  he  answered  ''  Poor  little  fool  !  "  there  was  in  his  manner 
what  she  felt  to  be  kindness. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  lodge,  and  drove  through  the 
park,  the  sight  of  tents  decorated  with  flags  and  streamers 
met  tlieir  eyes,  and  the  sound  of  a  band  of  music  was  heard 
in  the  distance.  Other  carriages — less  heavy  and  stately  than 
theirs — rapidly  passed  them  and  the  whole  scene  was  bright 
and  animated  in  tlie  extreme.  Woodlands  was  not  a  very  fine 
place,  there  was  nothing  particularly  picturesque  about  its 
scenery,  but  on  a  fine  sunny  day  like  the  present  one,  it  had 
enough  of  the  beauty  whicli  belongs  to  most  English  country 
places  to  appear  to  advantage,  especially  as  art  and  decoration 
had  been  profusely  employed  to  give  brilliancy  to  the  aspect 
of  the  well  laid  out  gardens,  and  the  large  cheerful  rooms, 
which  Avere  almost  as  gay  with  flowers  as  the  parterre. 

Neither  Father  Liffoi'd  nor  Gertrude  were  shy,  but  both 
were  doubtless  uncomfortable  when  (their  names  having  been 
shouted  from  the  bottom  of  tiie  staircase)  they  entered  the 
drawing-room  wliere  Mrs.  Apley  was  receiving  her  guests — 
he  from  an  intense  aversion  to  the  whole  proceeding,  and  she 


LADY-niRD.  03 

from  a  consciousness  that  their  appearance  might  excite  sur- 
prise. She  did  not  feel  sure  that  her  dress  was  not  ver^ 
peculiar.  She  had  cast  a  (juick  ghince  at  some  of  tlie  women 
who  had  arrived  at  tlie  same  time  as  herself,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that  somehow  they  looked  very  different,  and  so  they  cer- 
tainly did.  A  young  antelope  turned  into  the  midst  of  a  herd 
of  English  cows  would  not  have  presented  a  greater  contrast 
than  did  the  Spanish-looking  girl  amongst  the  tribe  of  fair- 
haired  and  pink-cheeked  young  ladies  that  filled  the  room. 
Father  Lifford  was  too  well  bred  not  to  be  civil,  however  cross 
he  might  feel,  and  he  said  a  few  words  to  Mrs.  Apley  in  a  tone 
that  did  not  betray  how  much  he  wished  himself  anywhere 
but  where  he  was.  and  said  something  about  his  niece's  ill 
health,  but  nothing  about  her  husband's  non-appearance ; 
which  all  did  eijually  well,  for  Mrs.  Aph^y  was  rather  deaf  and 
very  absent,  and  so  replied  with  a  sweet  smile  that  she  was 
truly  glad  to  hear  it,  and  as  this  was  evidently  kindly  meant 
it  also  perfectly  answered  its  purpose. 

As  soon  as  she  could,  Gertrude  passed  into  the  next  room 
and  stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  looking  about  her.  The 
noise  as  well  as  the  sight  of  a  crowded  room  was  new  and 
strange  to  her.  It  surprises  people  who  notice  it  for  the  first 
time  to  observe  what  a  business  talking  is.  Young  people 
who  have  never  been  in  society  as  children,  and  only  heaid  of 
the  auiusemcnts  of  grown  up  people,  can  imagine  what  is  the 
pleasure  of  a  ball,  a  concert,  or  a  play,  but  to  stand  for  Injurs 
talking  as  fast  or  listening  as  patiently  as  possible  to  persons, 
many  if  not  most  of  them  neither  agreeable  nor  amusing  (for  so 
they  hear  the  great  majority  of  the  human  race  deemed  by 
those  who  make  society  the  business  of  their  lives)  should  be 
either  a  great  pleasure  or  a  great  duty  strikes  them  as  incom- 
prehensible, or  that  it  should  be  done  at  all,  if  it  is  neither  tht 
one  nor  the  other,  still  more  so.  It  is  even  strange  to  those  who 
have  been  used  to  it  all  their  lives,  when  they  begin  to  analyse 
the  subject ;  just  as  when  we  meditate  on  the  intellectual  pro 
cess  through  which  we  read,  write,  or  play  on  an  instrument 
We  wonder  over  and  could  almost  admire  ourselves  for  it,  if 
we  did  not  remember  in  time  that  a  child  at  a  village  school 
can  do  the  same.  No,  society  is  sometimes  a  duty,  sometimes 
a  pleasure,  but  more  generally  the  gratification  of  an  instinct 
which  requires  it  even  when  it  has  ceased  to  afford  enjoyment. 
It  is  almost  indispensable  to  those  who  are  not  exclusively 
engrossed  by  other  objects  ;  it  takes  us  out  of  ourselves,  and 


Ul  LADT-niRD. 

that  is  an  excursion  which  we  all  more  or  less  like,  till  we 
have  learnt  to  live  on  such  terms  with  that  odd  creature  Self^ 
as  not  to  require  a  frequent  leave  of  absence  from  its  torment- 
ing companionship. 

Perhaps  no   one  will   so  soon  thoroughly   understand  as 
Gertrude  the  nature  of  that  relief,  no  one  may  so  soon  appre- 
ciate as  much  that  artificial  means  of  killing  time,  but  as  yet 
she  is  only  a  looker  on,  and  it  seems  unprofitable  enough  to 
watch  the  civil  or  rude  behaviour,  the  eager  or  listless  manner, 
the  too  light  or  too  heavy  talk  of  the  old  young  people  or  the 
young  old  people  who  congregate  together  in  what  by  courtesy 
is  called   the  world.     By   degrees  she  distinguished  two  oi 
three  persons  whose  appearance  interested  her.  and  soon  Mrs. 
Apley  came  into  the  room  where  she  was  standing  in  patient 
contemplation   of  her  fellow-creatures,  and  introduced   some 
of  them   to  her.     Amongst  others  her  son,  the  hero   of  the 
day.     For   several  years  Gertrude  had  known  him  by  sight, 
and  had  been  conscious  that  he  admired  her.     There  had  even 
been  a  sort  of  approach  to  acquaintance  between  them.     He 
had  held  a  gate  open  for  her,  and  once  picked  up  something 
she  had  dropped  and  rode  after  her  to  restore  it.      He  alluded 
to  this  in  an  agreeable  manner,  and  entered  into  conversation 
with  her  in  a  way  that  made  her  feel  herself  immediately  at 
her  ease  with  him.     She  was  not  the  least  shy,  although  her 
eyes  were  so,  and  this  contrast  was  piquant.     Young  Apley 
was  amused  by  her  remarks,  and  fascinated  by  her  counte- 
nance.    He  had  heard  something  of  the  peculiarities  of  her 
home,  and  knew  how  secluded  had  been  her  life.     This  excited 
his    curiosity,   and    that — as  well  as    his   admiration  of  her 
beauty — made  him   long  to  know  more  of  her,  and  when  he 
was  called  away  and  obliged  to  attend  to  other  people,  he  sent 
one  of  his  sisters  to  make  tlie  civil  to  that  pretty  girl  with  the 
corn-flowers  in  her  hat.     "  She  is  such  a  duck,"  he  whispered 
to    Harriet  Apley,  who  looked  herself  much  more  like  that 
bird  (not  a  popular  one  in  his  own  character,  but  who  stands 
in  fashionable  slang  as  the  synonyme  of  charm)  than  the  tall 
slim  Gertrude,  who  would  have  looked  somewhat  contemptuous 
had  she  overheard  this  expression  of  praise  from  her  admirer's 
lips. 

She  was  a  round,  pretty,  plump  little  creature,  who  had 
been  out  ever  since  she  could  speak.  When  asked  at  sixteen, 
if  she  was  soon  coming  out,  she  laughed  and  said  she  had  never 
been  in.     There  was  something  in  her  pretty  round  mouth 


LADT-BIUD.  95 

and  her  inerry  round  eyes  that  had  gained  her  the  name  of 
Cherry,  when  she  used  to  appear  at  dessert  as  "  the  picture 
of  a  cliihl,"  and,  now  that  she  was  grown  up.  Cherry  was  still 
rather  attractive,  though  no  longer  reckoned  the  picture  or 
the  ''beau  ideal"  of  anything.  She  was  as  civil  as  she  could 
be  to  Gertrude,  but  soon  got  tired,  for  she  thought  talking  to 
girls  was  very  dull  work.  She  was  one  of  the  people  who 
speak  of  talking  to  women,  or  talking  to  men,  quite  irrespec- 
tively of  the  merits  or  peculiarities  of  the  individuals  of  each 
SOX.  The  dullest  man  was  (at  a  party  at  least)  a  more  agree- 
able companion  than  the  cleverest  woman  of  her  acquaintance, 
and  that  not  merely  from  a  spirit  of  co(|uetry,  though  perhaps 
she  was  a  coquette,  nor  from  the  wish  to  be  married,  tlinugh 
perhaps  she  did  wish  it,  but  simply  because — as  she  often 
said — one  did  not  go  into  society  to  talk  to  women. 

Perhaps,  if  she  had  been  into  herself  at  any  time  of  her 
life,  she  would  have  discovered  the  reason  of  this,  but  she  was 
one  of  those  whose  self  was  always  out  of  doors  :  not  that  she 
disagreed  with  it  at  home,  but  she  had  never  attempted  to 
commune  with  it  there.  Cherry  had  been  watching  for  an 
opportunity  of  escaping  from  her  present  position,  and  was 
making  inward  comments  on  the  impropriety  of  girls  going 
out  witliout  a  regular  chaperon,  or  at  least  some  acquaintances 
that  they  could  join,  when  the  sound  of  music  from  the  gallery 
relieved  her  from  her  difficulty. 

"  I  am  sure  you  would  like  to  hear  the  singing,"  she  eagerly 
said,  and  naming  the  most  ftimous  singer  of  that  time — one 
who  joined  to  a  wonderful  voice  the  eliarm  of  a  beautiful  face 
and  of  an  extraordinary  genius — she  led  the  way  to  a  row  of 
chairs  not  far  from  the  pianoforte,  and.  after  placing  Gertrude 
there,  in  a  few  minutes  slipped  awaj"  with  an  easy  conscience  ; 
and  so  she  might  as  far  as  her  new  acquaintance  was  con- 
cerned, for  the  duet  in  the  second  act  of  Semiramide  had 
begun.  Both  singers  were  perfect  in  their  way.  and  Gertrude 
was  soon  wholly  absorbed  in  the  performance. 

Some  kinds  of  music  re(|uire  an  experienced  ear  to  enjoy 
them,  and  are  not  appreciated  at  the  first  hearing  ;  but.  in 
tins  instance,  it  was  not  so.  It  had  an  electric  efiect  on  one 
who  had  not  been  used  to  the  magical  charm  of  such  singing  ; 
her  cheeks  flushed,  her  heart  beat,  and  her  eyes  sparkled.  The 
scene  was  altogether  so  novel ;  the  crowd  of  faces  surrounding 
her, — before  her  the  great  singer,  in  whose  countenance  and 
gestures  the  inspiration  of  genius  and  of  passion  was  visible ; 


96  LADY-BIRD. 

whose  slight  frame  quivered  under  that  powerful  emotion. — 
the  words  of  defiance  and  of  revenge  hurled  from  one  proud 
spirit  to  another,  distinctly  uttered  and  often  reiterated, — the 
glorious  harmony  that  embodied  and  accompanied  them,  all 
combined  to  work  her  up  into  a  state  of  silent  but  oppressive 
excitement,  which  almost  seemed  to  take  away  her  breath. 

While  she  drank  in  the  sounds  that  thrilled  through  her 
being,  she  thought  of  her  own  destiny,  and  asked  herself  what 
it  would  be.  She  successively  wished  to  be  a  Queen  or  an 
Amazon,  a  singer  or  an  actress,  anything  but  what  she  was, 
anything  that  would  give  vent  to  the  longing  for  power  and 
for  action  which  that  spirited  music  awoke  in  her  soul.  Had 
she  a  voice  that  could  win  its  way  to  a  thousand  hearts?  Had 
she  a  mind  wlierewith  to  conceive,  a  pen  wherewith  to  trace 
what  might  sway  the  impulse  of  minds  without  number?  No, 
her  spirit  answered,  no,  it  could  not  be.  She  was  too  young 
and  too  ignorant,  too  rash  and  too  unstable  for  such  hopes, 
for  such  tasks,  for  such  stimulants  as  these.  She  must 
reign  through  other  means,  if  reign  she  ever  could.  She 
must  sway  hearts  in  another  mode,  if  to  sway  them  she  desired. 
How  little  did  those  placed  at  her  side  on  that  day  guess  the 
thoughts  and  the  wishes,  the  projects  and  the  hopes,  which 
were  at  work  in  her  mind  as  she  sat  there  in  that  concert-room, 
looking  beautiful  and  shy,  and  hiding  her  mouth  with  her 
enamelled  fan. 

In  the  midst  of  her  reverie  she  looked  towards  the  door, 
and  her  eyes  met  those  of  Mark  Apley  fixed  upon  her  in  evi- 
dent admiration.  •' Is  not  beauty  ^wte^er .''"  she  inwardly  ex- 
claimed ;  and  felt  it  was.  as  his  blue  eyes  paid  homage  to  the 
shadowy  beauty  of  her  own.  She  felt  it  when  he  forced  his 
way  through  the  rows  of  chairs  that  stood  between  them, 
drawn  on  by  the  magnetism  of  her  now  downcast  glance,  and 
when  he  put  into  her  hand  a  rose  of  great  value,  the  only  one 
of  its  kind  that  the  conservatory  contained.  She  felt  it  once 
again  when  the  duet  was  over,  and  loud  bursts  of  applause 
rose  from  the  audience.  '•  0,  how  I  like  that  sound,"  she 
exclaimed,  •'  I  had  never  heard  it  before  ;  why  .don't  you  ap- 
plaud, you  who  can?"  she  added,  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  a 
smile  that  niade  Mark  Aplcy  clap  his  hands  with  an -energy 
that  the  pure  love  of  music  had  never  before  prompted. 
'•  Now,"  she  said,  ''  I  must  hear  that  again.  You  wiist  get  it 
repeated,  that  beautiful  music  which  says,  '  I  will  subdue  you,' 
and  which,  with  the  same  notes  answers,  '  I  will  not  be  sub- 
dued.'    Go,  make  them  sing  it  again." 


LADY-BIRD.  07 

She  iaid  her  fan,  with  a  pretty  gesture  of  command,  not 
on  but  near  his  hand,  and  gave  him  a  frown  which  enchanted 
^lim.  A  frown  is  a  charming  tiling  on  a  pretty  face ;  it  is 
seldom  on  any  face  an  awful  one.  Look  at  the  lines  about 
the  mouth :  there  will  the  young  wife,  or  the  husband  who 
may  have  often  frowned  at  each  other  in  loving  hours  and 
lovers'  (juarrels,  see  the  first  expression  of  displeasure  in  the 
face  whose  frowns  tliey  have  smilingly  defied.  JMark  Apley 
rushed  to  the  pianoforte,  and  obtained  the  repetition  of  the 
duet.  Again  Gertrude  listened  to  it  with  delight,  but  now 
there  was  something  perhaps  more  definite  in  her  thoughts, 
and  as  she  pulled  to  pieces  the  rare  flower  in  her  hand,  she 
built  up  a  vision  as  bright  as  its  petals. 

"  See,  you  have  destroyed  it,"  he  said,  gathering  up  one 
of  the  rosy  fragments  from  the  floor.  She  put  her  little 
foot  on  the  others,  and  said  with  a  smilg,  "  Regina  e  guer- 
rierra." 

"  But  you  should  be  queen  of  flowers,  and  not  war  with 
your  subjects." 

"  I  would  not  if  they  swore  allegiance  to  me  ;  but  this  one 
■was  rebellious  ;   it  would  not  bend  without  breaking." 

"  You  are  inclined  to  be  a  tyrant,  I  think." 

A  cloud  passed  over  the  beautiful  face  on  which  he  was 
gazing,  and  she  answered  quickly,  '•  No,  I  love  not  tyrants  ; — 
but  listen  to  wliat  they  are  singing  now.      0  what  is  it  .i^" 

But  she  would  not  let  him  answer,  her  finger  was  on  her 
lip,  and  her  soul  was  on  the  wing.  "  Suivez  nioi,"  the  wild 
appeal  to  liberty  in  Guillaume  Tell  was  drawing  her  on,  as  it 
were,  into  a  world  she  knew  not  yet.  It  seemed  a  summons 
to  something  new  and  free,  into  which  her  spirit  had  not  yet 
soared ;  and  when  it  ended  she  murmured.  '■  Oui,  que  je  toi 
suive  ;"  and  ]Mark,  who  was  very  pleasing,  but  not  very  wise, 
asked,  -'Who?"  and  she  answered,  '"The  in.spiration  of  the 
moment,"  which  he  did  not  understand,  but  he  thought  her 
very  clever  as  well  as  very  luvely,  and  never  had  felt  so  fas- 
cinated by  any  one  before. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  movement  amongst  the 
singers  and  the  audience.  The  principal  performers  left  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  the  pianoforte,  and  Mrs.  Apley  went  up 
to  tliem,  and  said  a  few  word.s.  which  were  received  with  a 
gracious  smile,  and  they  placed  themselves  on  a  sofa,  while 
through  the  door  behind  the  pianoforte  Maurice  Redmond 
came  in.     He  and  Mary  had  been  standing  in  that  door-way 

7 


98  LADY-BIRD. 

ever  since  tlie  concert  had  begun,  and  he  had  not  for  a  moment 
taken  off  his  eyes  from  the  spot  where  Gertrude  had  been  sit- 
ting Vi'ith  Mark  Apley.  All  eyes  were  now  turned  upon  him, 
and  hers  amongst  the  number.  She  saw  that  he  was  very 
pale,  and  with  a  rapid  glance,  perceived  that  Mary  saw  it  also, 
and  was  looking  as  white  as  a  sheet.  He  sat  down  at  the 
pianoforte — tliere  was  an  empty  space  between  it  and  rows 
of  people  on  every  side  They  were  unusually  silent  at  that 
moment ;  nobody  was  near  liim — his  nervousness  increased — 
he  was  evidently  not  well  Drops  of  sweat  were  starting  on 
his  forehead.  Mary's  color  went  and  came  ;  slie  could  not  go 
to  him,  of  course,  or  stir  from  her  place,  but  she  grew  paler 
every  second,  and  pressed  her  hand  tightly  on  her  heart.  His 
nervousness  was  bccominiir  insurmountable,  and  the  silence  of 
the  audience  increased  with  their  wonder  that  he  did  not  be- 
gin. Both  felt  dreadfully  alone  in  that  crowd,  and  when  he 
said  in  a  low  husky  voice,  "  It  is  of  no  use,  I  cannot  play," 
she  heard  it  and  leant  back  against  the  wall  with  a  faint  giddy 
sensation  at  her  heart. 

But  a  light  step  at  that  moment  crossed  the  room,  and  in 
an  instant  Gertrude  was  by  his  side.  She  put  an  open  music- 
book  on  the  desk  to  stand  as  it  were  between  him  and  the  au- 
dience ;  she  gave  him  her  smelling-bottle,  and  with  a  few  of  her 
gay  words,  and  with  a  glance  of  her  beautiful  eyes,  she  revived 
him  more  than  fresh  air  or  a  cordial  could  have  done.  It  was 
what  he  wanted  ;  she  had  done  what  she  meant,  and  cared  not 
then  a  straw  that  tliere  were  looks  of  astonishment  and  whis- 
pered remarks  going  on  in  the  room.  The  colour  returned  to 
his  cheek  ;  one  look  of  ardent  gratitude  he  turned  upon  her  and 
said,  "  I  can  play  now,  Lady-liird."  She  then  went  to  Mary 
stood  by  her  in  the  door-way,  and  held  her  cold  hand  in  hers 
wliilc  he  sounded  a  few  preluding  chords  with  an  uncertain 
liand.  They  were  both  still  afraid  that  he  would  f;iil,  but  tho 
fear  was  soon  dissipated.  It  had  been  but  a  moment's  depres- 
sion— now  he  was  more  powerfully  stimulated  than  he  had 
ever  been  yet,  and  played  far  better  than  usual.  He  strained 
ijvery  nerve,  and  his  frame  now  quivered  with  excitement,  as 
it  had  done  before  with  agitation.  But  he  did  wonders  under 
this  influence,  and  the  fastidious  artists  who  were  listening  to 
him  were  astonished  at  the  pcrformanccTof  one.  who  had  never 
yet  appeared  in  London  or  in  Paris,  and  whose  name  was  not 
yet  much  known,  exccjtt  in  tlie  towns  of  Italy  where  he  had 
gained  some  reputation.  They  warmly  applauded,  and  as  they 
led  the  way  the  rest  of  the  society  joined  in  it. 


LADY-BIUD.  90 

The  delicate  touch  and  profound  sensibility  with  which  he 
rung  some  changes  on  a  German  air,  completed  his  succesp. 
The  beautiful  Prima  Donna's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she 
praised  liim  wlien  he  bad  finished,  as  artists  love  to  be  praised. 
Mark  Apley  and  his  sisters  and  other  acquaintances  also  ga- 
thered around  him  ;  kind  flattering  words,  and  warm  expres- 
sions of  pleasure  were  buzzed  about  his  cars,  and  his  soul  was 
satisfied.  Yes,  his  soul,  not  his  vanity.  Tliere  is  a  joy  in 
praise  which  has  nothing  to  do  with  vanity.  It  is  a  species  of 
sympathy  which  those  who  possess  genius  in  any  line  almost 
imperatively  reijuire.  It  is  the  breeze  that  fans  the  flame,  the 
oil  that  feeds  tlie  lamp.  Praise,  when  it  is  sincerely  bestowed, 
and  gratefully  received,  often  produces  a  kind  of  timid  and 
humble  happiness,  as  remote  from  vanity  as  a  mother's  exulta- 
tion at  her  infant's  beauty  is  different  from  a  haughty  con- 
sciousness of  her  own. 

'•  Do  you  not  feci  proud  of  him,  Mary?"  Gertrude  whis- 
pered as  they  too  joined  the  group. 

"  Too  happy  to  be  proud,"  and  she  looked  at  her  with 
grateful  eyes.  "  0  that  those  kind  people,"  she  continued, 
glancing  at  the  Italian  artists,  "  would  now  sing  again.  My 
selfish  heart  was  so  tight  when  they  did  so  bcfoe,  that  it  could 
not  enjoy  what  would  be  now  so  delightful." 

"  Your  selfish  heart!"  Gertrude  exclaimed  with  a  smile. 
"  Yes,  selfish  indeed  ;  why  think  so  exclusively  of  oneself?" 
and  she  looked  at  Maurice  as  if  there  was  but  one   self  be- 
tween them. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Apley  came  up  to  Gertrude,  and 
gave  her  a  little  note  hastily  written  in  pencil ;  it  was  from 
Father  Liflford.  Just  after  she  had-  been  placed  in  an  unap- 
proachable position  in  the  music  room,  he  had  received  a  mes- 
sage to  the  purport  that  a  dying  person  had  sent  for  him  soon 
after  he  had  h^ft  home,  and  not  a  moment's  time  was  to  be 
lost  in  attending  to  it.  He  hastily  retjuestcd  Mrs.  Apley 
kindly  to  take  charge  of  Gertrude  during  the  remainder  of  the 
day, — the  only  expedient  he  could  think  of,  as  the  carriage 
had  not  been  ordered  till  some  hours  later,  and  he  himself 
went  off  on  foot  to  the  cottage  where  he  was  wanted.  Nothing 
could  be  more  agreeable  to  Gertrude  than  this  incident,  as  far 
as  regarded  her  own  prospect  of  anuiseurent:  the  few  hours 
before  her  appeared  like  a  whole  life  of  pleasure  to  be  enjoyed 
ere  the  moment  of  departure  should  arrive. 

The  concert  was  at  an  end,  and  it  was  now  rumoured  that 


100  LADY-BIRD. 

dancing  was  soon  to  begin.  Several  young  men  were  intro- 
duced to  Gertrude  by  Miss  Apley.  and  she  was  soon  surrounded 
by  a  number  of  persons,  bent  on  making  themselves  agreeable 
to  her.  She  grew  very  animated  and  talked  a  great  deal. 
Very  amusing  she  was,  though  many  of  the  things  she  said 
would  not  bear  repetition  ;  but  they  were  lively,  original, 
quaint,  and  withal  natural,  for  there  was  not  a  grain  of  affec- 
tation about  her.  Mark  Apley  hovered  near  her,  and  drank 
in  the  sweet  poison  of  love,  as  if  he  had  been  a  bee  diving  into 
a  honeysuckle.  How  every  moment  her  spirits  rose,  as  she 
perceived  that  a  glance  of  her  eye  could  bring  him  back  to  her 
side,  if  for  an  instant  he  made  an  effort  to  attend  to  others  ! 
The  music  struck  up.  '■  Will  you  waltz  with  me.  Miss 
Lifford  ?  " 

The  colour  rushed  into  the  rich  olive  tints  of  the  Spanish 
girl's  check. 

'•  I  cannot  waltz.      I  do  not  know  how." 

"  What ! — liave  you  never  tried?" 

"  No,  indeed.  Do  you  think  people  dance  at  Lifford 
(j  range?" 

"  Oh,  but  you  will  dance  naturally, — I  know  you  will,-— 
just  as  your  hair  curls  naturally.      I  see  it  does,  for  the  wind.- 
as  it  blows  it  about,  only  makes  it  curl  the  more.      Those 
locks  at  the  back  of  your  head  that  have  escaped  from  the 
plaits. — they  were  not  meant  to  curl ;   confess  it." 

"  0  nothing  does  what  it  ought  with  me,"  she  answered ; 
and  seizing  the  two  rebellious  locks,  she  straightened  them 
down  as  if  to  punish  their  wilfulness,  and  then  threw  them 
back  to  wave  and  curl  on  her  neck.  "  Go  and  dance,  Mr. 
Apley;   I  will  look  on,  and  perhaps  learn." 

'■  Come  with  me,"  he  eagerly  exclaimed  ;  "  there  is  no  on& 
in  the  gallery.  I  will  teach  you  ;  it  will  be  the  work  of  a 
minute." 

He  gave  her  his  arm,  and  they  flew,  rather  than  walked, 
through  the  rooms  into  the  one  where  the  concert  had  taken 
place.  On  one  of  the  window-seats  Maurice  was  sitting  in  a 
lounging  attitude.  He  gave  a  start  when  they  entered  the 
room,  and  sprung  to  his  feet.  Gertrude  let  go  Mr.  Apley'a 
arm,  and  cried  out, 

"Ah,  there  you  are, — resting  after  your  successes;  enjoy- 
ing your  triumph." 

"Do  you  think  he  would  play  us  a  waltz?"  Mark  said  to 
her  in  a  low  voice.  "  It  would  nuxke  you  learn  twice  aa 
soon." 


LADY-BIRD.  101 

"  Maurice,"  she  eagerly  cried,  "  do  play  that  German  waltz 
that  I  used  to  like  so  much  ;  Mr.  Apley  is  going  to  teach  me 
to  waltz." 

"  Is  he?"  Maurice  coldly  answered.  "  I  do  not  know  that 
I  can  renienibcr  what  you  want." 

"  0,  but  anything  will  do, — only  make  haste,  because  we 
have  no  time  to  lose." 

If  there  was  anything  imperious  in  her  manner  of  saying 
this,  it  was  only  the  wilfulness  of  a  child  that  would  not  be 
contradicted  by  one  wlio  had  always  yielded  to  her  slightest 
wishes ;  but  susceptible  as  he  was,  it  wounded  him  to  the 
t^uick.  He  felt  as  if  the  world  had  already  done  its  work  with 
her,  and  that  she  spoke  to  him  in  a  tone  of  offensive  dictation. 
lie  flushed  to  the  very  temples  as  he  sat  down  at  the  piano- 
forte, and  began  i)layiiig  in  a  rapid  and  abrupt  manner.  It 
was  not  a  gay  tunc,  or  else  he  played  it  strangely.  She  kept 
calling  out  to  him  now  and  then,  "  Not  so  fast," — or,  '"  You 
are  not'  playing  so  well  as  usual,  Maurice!" — and  he  bit  his 
lips  almost  through  with  vexation. 

And  tlie  truth  was,  lie  did  not  play  well  There  was  an 
accompaniment  that  put  him  out  singularly, — the  noise  of  swift 
steps  ;  the  rustle  of  a  muslin  dre.'^s  ;  the  tone  of  a  joyous 
laugh  ;  the  sound  of  two  voices  interchanging  gay  reproofs 
and  instructions.  Once  an  exclamation — "  0  stop,  I  am  so 
giddy;"  and  the  answer,  '•  0  no,  no,  don't  stop."  But  the 
music  ceased  at  once,  and  the  musician  darted  up  from  his 
place,  and  rushed  forward.  What  business  had  he  to  do  so? 
He  felt  it,  and  turning  back  as  suddenly,  played  a  wild  air  of 
Strauss's  with  feveri.sli  vehemence,  and  then  the  waltz  in  Rob- 
ert le  Diable,  which  intermingles  notes  of  despairing  sweet- 
ness with  the  discords  of  hell.  "  That  will  do,  Maurice — I 
thank  you  so  much.  I  have  learnt  all  I  wanted."  And  away 
she  went,  with  her  light  step,  her  beautiful  figure,  her  flashing 
eyes,  and  her  unconsciousness  of  the  pain  she  left  behind  her. 

"  Come,  Mary,  have  you  had  enough  of  this  i^lcasure  for 
to-day  ?  Shall  we  steal  away  by  the  back  door,  find  the  pony 
chaise,  and  go  home?"  "  Yes,"  she  said,  and  put  her  arm  in 
his,  and  soon  they  were  driving  through  fragrant  fir  w^oods,  in 
the  refreshing  coolness  of  the  evening.  They  did  not  talk  of 
Woodlands,  but  lie  said  he  should  like  to  go  and  shut  himself 
up  with  her  in  some  quiet  retreat,  where  the  sounds  of  the 
world  would  never  roach  them,  where  only  Mary's  voice  would 
Ije  heard — only  Mary's  love  would  be  known. 


102  LADY-BIRD. 

"  Still  your  Italiax  /)lans,"  she  answered  with  a  smile. 

"  0  no,  not  Italy—  -some  quiet  English  spot.  I  am  tired 
©f  beauty — weary  of  admiring — sick  of  efforts  and  struggles. 
Let  me  float  down  the  stream  hand  in  hand  with  you,  Mary." 

"  No,  no  !  it  is  up,  not  down  the  stream  that  we  must  row. 
What  has  made  you  so  faint-hearted,  Maurice  ?  Do  you  not 
remember  those  lines  you  used  to  repeat  to  me  in  London^ 
when  I  pined  much  for  the  cottage  and  the  country  ?  " 

"  O  Time,  0  lifo,  yc  were  not  made 
For  l;iiiL'ui(l  dreamiiij^  in  the  sliade, 
Nor  willful  liearts  to  moor  all  day 
By  lily  isile  or  grassy  bay, 
Nor  drink  at  noontitle's  balmy  hours 
Sweet  opiates  from  the  meadow  flowers." 

"  0  for  a  vily  isle,"  he  exclaimed,  "  or  grassy  bay  ;  if  such 
there  are  in  life's  river  !  Or  an  opiate  that  will  send  one  to 
sleep  on  its  shore  !  " 

"  No,  no,  my  dearest  child,  you  must  ply  your  oars  with 
courage,  even  though  it  be  against  the  tide  ;  you  must  not  lay 
them  down  while  there  is  work  to  do." 

"  Why  do  you  call  me  chi/d,  Mary  ?  " 

"  It  is  my  fancy.  I  think  there  is  something  of  a  mother's 
love  in  my  affection  for  you.  and  then  it  seems  to  give  me  a 
right  to  scold  you  sometimes." 

"  You  are  an  angel,  Mary.  How  calm  and  sweet  every 
thing  is  now  !  There  was  something  oppressive  in  the  air  at 
Woodlands." 

After  a  pause,  he  said,  "Mary, we  must  not  be  ungrateful — 
she  was  very  kind."  She  turned  to  him  surprised.  Was  he 
speaking  of  Gertrude  ?  She  had  not  felt  ungrateful  to  her  ; 
on  the  contrary — what  did  lie  mean  ? 

"  O.  nothing,  nothing,"  he  answered,  and  sighed. 

The  light  died  away  before  they  reached  their  home.  The 
moon  threw  its  rays  on  the  quiet  waters  of  the  Leigh.  The 
mignonette  and  the  carnation  smelt  sweetly  in  the  widow's 
garden,  and  Mary — as  she  sat  at  the  window  of  her  little  bed- 
room— felt  glad  that  the  day  was  come  to  an  end,  and  that  not 
many  such  were  likely  to  recur  in  her  life. 

(jlertjude,  in  the  mean  time,  was  in  the  midst  of  the  ball 
which  had  succeeded  the  other  amusements  of  the  day  at 
Woodhnuls.  The  carriage  came  for  licr  at  six,  but  she  was 
■yoi  suaded  to  keep  it  waiting  till  twelve.      In  Miss  Apley'a 


LADY-BIRD.  103 

room  she  made  such  alterations  in  her  dress  as  could  be  con- 
trived at  a  moment's  notice  ;  her  mantle  and  straw  hat  were 
put  aside,  some  white  and  rod  camellias  were  arranged  in  her 
hair.  A  nosegay  of  hothouse  flowers,  wliich  had  filled  a  vase 
on  the  dressing-table,  was  fastened  on  her  breast,  and  relieved 
the  plainness  of  her  simple  muslin  corsage.  As  she  stood  at 
the  end  of  the  room  by  the  side  of  Mark  Apley,  waiting  for 
the  music  to  strike  up,  and  with  true  Spanish  grace  playing 
with  her  large  fan.  many  eyes  were  turned  upon  her,  and 
many  inquiries  made  about  hei\  She  JlcuI  learnt  to  waltz 
during  her  brief  lesson  in  the  gallery  ;  soon  she  was  flying 
round  the  room,  her  feet — her  almost  incredibly  small  feet — 
scarcely  touching  the  ground,  her  cheeks  flushed  witli  exercise 
and  animation,  and  her  partners  every  moment  increasing, 
and  undisguised  admiration  raising  her  spirits  to  the  highest 
pitch. 

If  she  had  been  plain  or  only  ordinarily  good-looking,  it 
might  have  been  wise  to  send  her  for  once  into  that  world 
which  she  had  so  longed  to  be  acquainted  with.  She  might 
have  been  disenchanted  with  what  she  had  pictured  to  herself 
as  so  delightful,  and  mortification  might  have  changed  the 
bias  of  her  excitable  temper  into  some  other  channel ;  but 
her  beauty,  her  originality,  and  the  peculiarity  of  her  man- 
ners—  which  were  refined  without  being  conventional  and 
strange,  but  at  the  same  time  graceful  —  obtained  her  that 
kind  of  success  which  she  but  too  well  appreciated,  but  too 
much  enjoyed. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  the  heat  of  the  ballroom 
grew  intense,  and  through  one  of  the  open  windows  several 
persons  went  into  the  shrubbei'y  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  and 
walked  towards  a  grotto  which  stood  at  the  end  of  one  of  the 
alleys.  Gertrude  had  just  done  waltzing  for  the  third  or 
fourth  time,  and  followed  some  young  girls,  whose  ac(juaiut- 
ance  she  had  made,  out  of  the  stifling  room  into  the  garden. 
They  loitered  near  the  house,  but  out  of  curiosity  she  went 
further  and  arrived  at  the  grotto,  which  looked  invitingly  cool. 
She  was  just  going  to  step  into  it,  attracted  by  the  refreshing 
sound  of  tlie  water  which  trickled  down  its  v/alls,  when  some- 
body said  to  her,  •'  Pray  forgive  me  for  speaking  to  you,  but 
you  should  not  go  into  that  place,  heated  as  you  are.  It  ia 
dangerous." 

Few  and  simple  as  were  the  words  of  the  speaker,  they 
affected  her  in  a  singular  manner.     She  felt  touched  without 


1 04  LAOY-BIRD. 

knowing  why,  and  turned  round  to  look  at  the  person  who  had 
given  her  this  warning  He  was  unlike  any  one  she  had  ever 
seen,  except  a  picture  in  lior  mother's  room  of  the  Due  do 
Grand ia.  by  Velasquez,  which  had  been  since  her  childhood  her 
ideal  of  manly  beauty.  That  face  alone  had  borne  any  resem- 
blance to  the  one  which  was  now  before  her.  So  perfectly 
symmetrical,  so  majestically  good,  so  expressive,  and  yet  so 
calm.  A  tall  slim  figure,  a  well-shaped  head  with  a  most 
thoughtful  brow,  a  smile  of  strange  beauty,  an  attitude  at 
once  dignified  and  easy — the  head  a  little  thrown  back,  and 
the  hand  resting  on  the  left  hip. 

She  had  not  felt  shy  at  any  time  that  day,  nor  was  she 
given  to  be  shy ;  but  now  a  sensation  of  that  kind  stole  over 
her,  and  she  said  "  Thank  you"  with  an  unusual  timidity,  and 
bowed  her  head  as  she  did  so,  with  something  of  submission 
as  well  as  of  acknowledgment.  "  I  hope  you  have  not  thought 
me  impertinent,"  he  said,  as  she  turned  back  towards  the 
house.  This  time  she  smiled  as  she  answered,  "  0,  no  !  "  and 
hoped  he  would  speak  again  ;  but  he  did  not,  and  she  returned 
to  the  ball-room,  and  sat  down  in  a  corner,  far  from  any  one 
she  knew. 

The  first  sight  of  the  Apollo  Belvedere  has  made  a  person 
burst  into  tears — a  beautiful  landscape  has  afi'ected  others  in 
the  same  way — the  sight  of  the  Alps  or  of  the  sea  has  awak- 
ened strong  emotion — eloquence,  even  when  not  on  a  pathetic 
subject,  has  stirred  the  deep  well-springs  of  feeling — and  who 
has  not  known  the  impression  which  a  procession,  the  hurrahs 
of  a  crowd,  or  a  sudden  burst  of  music  has  made  upon  them  ? 
Why  should  it,  then,  be  strange  that  the  sight  of  physical  and 
intellectual  beauty,  of  a  commanding  form,  visibly  inhabited 
by  a  superior  spirit,  should  have  had  something  of  the  same 
effect  on  Gertrude,  and  that  she  should  have  felt  her  eyes  fill- 
ing with  tears — a  very  rare  thing  with  her. 

But  there  might  be  something  else  in  this  emotion.  She 
had  been  very  happy  that  day — so  she  told  herself  and  so  she 
believed — but  had  she  not  felt  in  the  very  depth  of  her  young 
heart,  that  it  had  been  a  lonely  sort  of  happiness,  that  she  had 
been  praised  and  admired  and  made  much  of,  but  no  father's 
or  mother's  eyes  had  been  upon  her,  and  no  one  had  led  her 
by  the  hand  before  all  those  strangers  and  said  :  "  She  is  mine, 
look  at  her  if  you  will,  love  her  even  if  you  choose,  but  your 
new  love  is  nothing  to  the  love  with  which  we  have  cherished 
her  in  our  bosoms,  and  enshrined  her  in  our  heart."     No  one 


LADT-BIRD.  105 

had  watched  her  success  with  pleasure — no  one  as  she  left  the 
heated  ball-room  had  thrown  a  shawl  over  her  shoulders,  aa 
all  the  careful  mothers  were  doing  to  their  children — no  one 
had  checked  or  reproved  or  caressed  her  that  day.  Singular 
waywardness  of  the  human  heart — unconscious  yearnings  after 
eympathy  !  A  word  of  kindness  from  a  stranger  had  touched 
a  spring  almost  unknown  to  herself.  There  she  sat  watching 
or  seeming  to  watch  the  dancers,  and  new  thoughts  were  in 
her  mind,  or  rather  a  new  picture  in  her  mind's  eye,  which 
was  never  to  leave  it  again.  There  it  was  to  remain,  perhaps 
only  as  a  dream  that  has  been  dreamt,  and  haunts  us  more  or 
less  through  life,  and  embodies  our  imaginings  when  in  ro- 
mances or  in  poetry  we  read  of  beauty  and  of  love,  or  when 
at  other  times  we  try  to  realize  the  presence  of  an  angel  or  ;i 
hero,  of  the  conquering  archangel  or  the  glorious  Maccabee. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Gertrude  had  fou»d  it  pleasiint 
to  submit,  and  she  found  pleasure  in  dwelling  on  that  thonght, 
in  rehearsing  again  in  her  mind  that  little  act  of  submission 
to  a  perfect  stranger,  and  she  made  castles  in  the  air  about 
future  opportunities  of  showing  the  same  docility  again. 

'■  Do  come  and  dance  the  cotillon  with  nie,  Miss  Lifford." 
Mark  Apley  exclaimed,  as  he  swiftly  crossed  the  room  and 
stood  smiling  before  her.  She  sprung  eagerly  to  her  f(!et. 
She  was  impatient  to  fly  again  over  the  smooth  floor.  The 
music  again  was  resounding,  exciting  and  deligliting  every 
sense,  and  making  her  heart  bound  in  time  with  its  quick  and 
wild  measure.  Mark  Apley's  voice  was  also  pleasant  in  her 
ears,  for  he  said  he  should  never  lo.se  sight  of  her  again.  That 
he  would  sit  for  hours  on  the  bridge  of  Stonehouseleigh,  be- 
cause she  must  sometimes  drive  or  walk  into  the  town.  That 
he  would  go  and  hear  Vespers  at  the  Catholic  chapel,  for 
there  he  should  see  her — the  saint  of  his  devotion.  That  he 
was  not  to  be  baffled  when  he  had  set  his  heart  on  anything, 
and  that  after  spending  the  happiest  day  of  his  life  in  her  so- 
ciety, he  should  certainly  never  submit  not  to  see  her  again. 

All  this  was  said  in  joke,  but  there  was  something  earnest 
in  it  too.  She  saw  perfectly  how  much  he  admired  her ;  and 
nuisic,  and  admiration,  and  dancing,  and  flattery,  and  non- 
sense, and  liberty  were  pleasant  things  enough,  but  in  the 
midst  of  them  all  castle-building  went  on.  '•  If  that  voice," 
she  said  to  herself,  ■•  that  spoke  to  me  at  the  grotto  were 
again  to  address  me  now, — if  it  were  to  say  :  •  Do  not  dance 
so  wildly — do  not  flirt  so  rashly — it  is  dangerous  ! '  I  should 


TOG  LADY-BIRD. 

stop  at  once,  like  a  chidden  child,  and  feel  glad  to  be  thus  re- 
buked." But  she  neither  heard  that  voice  again,  nor  did  she 
S(^e  the  face  which  in  and  out  of  the  ball-room  her  eyes  were 
ovpr  searching  for.  She  asked  Miss  Apley,  and  then  Mark, 
and  one  or  two  other  persons,  who  was  a  tall  dark  gentleman 
whom  she  had  seen  in  the  shrubbery.  One  told  her  it  must 
have  been  Mr.  Luxmoor,  the  member  for  the  county,  another 
did  not  know — could  not  imagine  who  she  meant,  a  third 
thought  it  might  have  been  one  of  the  Italian  singei-s,  but  thia 
she  knew  could  not  be,  because  of  the  good  English  which  the 
stranger  spoke ;  and  nothing  else  could  she  learn. 

At  past  twelve  o'clock  Gertrude's  cloak  was  put  on,  her 
hands  aflectionately  pressed  by  Mrs.  Apley  and  her  daugh- 
ters, with  many  entreaties  not  to  let  their  acquaintance  drop, 
but  to  come  and  see  them  as  often  as  she  could.  Mark  took 
her  to  the  carriage.  She  saw  him  watching  her  from  the 
colonnade,  as  long  as  she  was  in  sight,  and  she  drove  home 
with  a  confusion  of  ideas  in  her  head,  and  fatigue  and  excite- 
ment bewildering  her  thoughts.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she 
had  lived  through  a  whole  life  since  she  left  home  that  morn- 
ing with  Father  Lifford.  But  one  thought  was  uppermost — 
one  image  was  prominent — one  impression  supreme,  and  as 
she  laid  her  tired,  but  not  sleepy  head  on  the  pillow,  the  idea 
that  passed  through  her  mind  was  this  :  "  To-morrow  I  shall 
look  at  the  Duke  of  Gandia's  picture." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"The  eloquence  of  goodnesis 
Scatters  not  words  in  the  ear,  but  gratteth  thom 
To  grow  there  and  to  bear." 

SnAKESFBARE. 

"  Love  is  a  great  transformer." 

On  the  morrow  Mrs.  Lifibrd  was  too  ill  to  speak.  Thf 
exertions  of  the  last  few  days  had  been  too  much  for  her,  and 
the  doctor  desired  that  none  but  her  maid  should  go  near  her. 
When  Gertrude  came  down  later  than  usual  to  the  breakfast- 
room,  she  found  that  her  two  usual  companions  had  left  it, — 
her  uncle  had  gone  to  the  same  cottage  where  he  had  been 


LADY-BIRD.  107 

Buraitianccl  tlic  clay  before,  and  her  father  had  already  shut 
himself  up  in  lii&  study.  She  threw  the  windows  wide  open, 
and  sat  down  to  her  solitary  meal,  which  was  quickly  finished. 
Then  she  took  a  camp-stool,  and  Luigi  da  Porto's  romance  of 
Romeo  and  Giulet,  which  Maurice  had  brouglit  with  him  from 
Italy.  She  took  tliem  into  the  shade,  underneath  one  of  the 
largest  trees  of  the  park,  and  there  remained  for  several  hours 
reading  and  dreaming  alternately.  She  had  never  felt  to 
dislike  Lifford  Grange  so  little.  She  wanted  time  for  think- 
ing or  rather  musing,  and  the  profound  stillness  of  that  wide 
solitary  park  was  not  irksome  then. 

It  was  one  of  those  sultry  days  in  September  when  not  a 
leaf  stirs,  when  scarcely  an  insect  buzzes  in  the  sunshine ; 
when  Nature  seems  asleep  in  the  plenitude  of  her  power — she 
has  yielded  up  her  harvest,  and  reposes  from  her  labour. 
Gertrude  had  read  the  words  which  the  enamoured  girl 
addresses  to  young  Montague  when  he  takes  her  hand  in 
the  dance,  at  that  ball  which  decides  her  fate,  •'  Benedetta  sia 
la  vostra  venuta  qui  presso  me,  Messer  Romeo,"  and  then  the 
book  dropped  from  her  hand  upon  her  knee,  and  she  wondered 
if  such  a  sudden  love  as  that  were  indeed  possible ;  and  on 
this  theme  she  meditated  long.  She  thought  of  Jacob  and 
Rachel,  of  James  of  Scotland  and  Madeleine  of  France,  and 
then  again  of  Romeo  and  Juliet, — and  believed  in  love  at 
first  sight. 

Her  eyes  fixed  on  the  green  grass ;  her  head  resting  on 
her  breast,  so  motioidess  that  she  heard  the  sound  of  her  own 
breathing  ;  her  hands  joined  together  on  the  book,  she  men- 
tally made  as  it  were  her  profession  of  that  faith, — and  seldom 
as  it  occurs,  who  can  deny  that  such  love  there  is?  It  is  not 
common,  perhaps  it  is  undesirable — perhaps  unreasonable — 
but,  if  it  is  real,  there  may  be  in  it  as  much  truth  and  strength 
and  purity,  as  in  the  affections  which  are  excited  by  a  few 
weeks'  flirting,  stimulated  on  the  one  side  by  coquetry  and  on 
the  other  by  vanity.  If  at  the  end  of  three  months'  flirtation, 
md  of  such  conversations  as  passed  the  day  before  between 
ier  and  jMark  Apley,  Gertrude  had  thought  hei'self  in  love 
jvith  liim,  would  she  or  ought  she  to  have  stood  higher  in  her 
own  esteem,  or  in  ours,  than  she  does  now,  when  she  is  con- 
scious of  having  yielded  up  her  heart  at  first  sight  to  one 
whose  countenance  indeed  may  be  deceitful,  whose  soul  and 
whose  intellect  may  be  unequal  to  the  stamp  aflSxed  on  his 
brow,  to  the  promise  of  his  face ;  but  in  whom,  even  if  such 


108  LADY-BIRD. 

were  the  case,  she  would  only  have  been  misled  to  pay  hom 
age  to  the  semblance  of  all  that  is  admirable  in  man? 

Who  he  was,  whence  he  came,  she  knew  not ;  what  he  was 
still  less  :  but  this  very  ignorance  reassured  her,  and  gave  her 
confidence  in  the  nature  of  the  impression  he  had  made  upon 
her.  That  he  could  be  anything  but  exalted  in  character  and 
intellect  she  felt  to  be  impossible,  and  would  have  staked  her 
life  on  his  excellence,  without  an  instant's  hesitation.  "  Poor 
little  fool,"  some  people  will  say — ay,  it  was  folly,  but  not  of 
the  meanest  sort,  and  we  pity  those  who  have  never  seen  the 
man  on  the  faith  of  whose  eyes  they  would  have  done  the 
same. 

While  she  was  thus  contempla"ting,  a  footstep  roused  her 

from  her  abstraction.     It  was  Father  Lifford  walking  slowly 

along   on   his  way  back   to   the   house.     He  looked  hot  and 

fatigued.     Gertrude  sprang  up  from  her  hiding-place  under 

•the  spreading  boughs,  and  called  to  him  eagerly: 

"  Here  is  a  stool,  Father  Lifford  ;  do  come  and  rest.  The 
air  is  so  sultry." 

"  Nonsense,  child,  I  am  not  tired." 

"  Do  sit  down  a  moment,"  she  said  in  a  tone  so  unusual 
that  he  looked  surprised,  and  perhaps  something  her  mother 
had  said  to  him,  in  their  last  long  conversation,  came  into  his 
mind ;  for  his  manner  changed,  and,  sitting  down  as  she 
wished,  he  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief,  and 
asked  her  how  she  felt  after  a  day  of  such  unaccustomed 
fatigue  and  excitement. 

She  had  taken  her  seat  opposite  to  him,  on  one  of  the  low 
branches  of  the  elm,  her  arm  twisted  round  another,  and  her 
feet  scarcely  reaching  the  ground. 

"  I  am  very  well,  Father  Lifford." 

"That  is  more  than  you  look.  You  have  not  a  bit  of 
colour  in  your  cheeks." 

"  It  is  the  heat." 

"  It  is  sitting  up  late." 

"  0  no,  I  never  slept  better  in  my  life." 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?  "  She  pulled  some  leaves  off 
the  branch  and  let  them  fall  on  the  book  which  was  lying  on 
the  grass.  He  pushed  them  aside  with  his  stick  and  turned 
over  the  pages  with  it. 

''  An  Italian  novel.  How  very  useful !  Ah,  Gertrude,  it 
is  not  in  this  way  that  you  will  prepare  for  yourself  such  a 
close  to  your  life  as  the  one  I  have  witnessed  to-day." 


LADY-BIRD.  109 

"  To-day — have  you  seen  aiiy  one  die  to-day  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  have,  and  a  girl  scarcely  older  than  yourself." 

"  Was  it  to  her  that  you  were  called  yesterday?  " 

"It  was;   and  she  died  this  morning." 

"  Kcsigued  ?  " 

"  Ay,  more  than  resigned — very  happy." 

"  Had  she  been  happy  on  earth  1  " 

*'  Yes,  nobody  in  her  station  could  have  been  more  so." 

"  Did  any  one  love  her  ?  " 

"  Her  parents,  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  slie  was  en- 
gaged to  be  married  to  a  young  man  who  was  also  very  fond 
of  her." 

"  Then,  I  am  not  surprised  that  she  died  happy." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"  I  mean  that  she  had  had  lier  share  of  happiness,  and  it 
made  her  good,  and  so  she  was  fit  for  death.  Do  you  know. 
Father,  a  strange  thing  ?  I  believe  I  should  be  more  resigned 
to  die  to-day  than  I  could  have  been  a  few  days  ago." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  and  pray  why  so?  " 

"  If  you  cannot  guess,  I  don't  think  I  can  tell  you." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  guess,  but  I  wish  to  put  to  you  a  ques- 
tion,— do  you  think  you  deserve  to  be  happy?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  she  answered  seriously.  "  I  am  more 
afraid  not  than  ever.  But  let  me  ask  you  a  (juestion.  and  do 
not  snub  me,  dear  Father  Lilford,  because  really  I  want  you 
to  answer  it, — do  not  you  think  I  should  have  been  better  if  I 
had  been  happier  ? " 

'•  I  have  always  told  you,  child,  that  you  might  have  been 
happy  if  you  had  chosen  it.  Why,  I  have  known  a  poor 
creature  in  a  hospital,  who  had  never  had  a  moment's  ease  since 
her  birth,  as  hap})y  as  the  day  was  long.  It  is  your  stubborn- 
ness that  makes  you  unhappy,  and  this  is  an  answer  to  3'our 
question." 

'•  No,  I  do  not  think  it  is.  Which  is  the  cause  and  which 
is  the  effect?  IVtat  is  the  question.  Tenderness  might  have 
made  me  less  stubborn." 

"  There  is  a  tenderness,  my  child,  which  should  have  sub- 
dued your  heart  long  ago.  I  greatly  fear  that  it  is  sorrow 
which  will  have  to  do  that  work  for  you.  If  small  trials,  if 
the  sufferings  of  a  wayward  spirit  are  not  enough  to  bring  you 
to  His  feet.  God  may  in  mercy  send  you  some  of  those  strange 
afflictions  which  break  the  heart  which  would  not  bend,  aud 
destroy  the  spirit  that  would  not  yield." 


110  LADY-BIRD. 

She  joined  her  hands,  and  said  in  a  low  voice :  "  Pray  for 
me  that  it  may  not  be  so." 

He  was  pleased  at  her  answer,  and  looked  at  her  kindly. 
Then,  taking  up  her  book  from  the  ground,  and  having  turned 
over  its  pages,  he  said  in  a  milder  tone  of  expostulation  than 
usual:  '■  Now  what  teaching  is  this?  Nothing  but  praise  of 
that  poor  creature  for  killing  herself  on  the  body  of  her  lover. 
Can  anything  be  more  dreadful.  If  the  story  be  a  true  one, 
as  it  is  said,  one  may  charitably  hope  that  she  went  mad  in 
that  horrible  place,  and  did  it  in  a  fit  of  insanity ;  but  here 
the  author  coolly  laments  that  such  an  example  of  real  love 
does  not  occur  more  frequently,  and,  I  dare  say,  so  besotted 
was  he  with  this  absurd  nonsense,  that  he  was  not  even  con- 
scious that  he  was  saying  something  very  wicked." 

'•  I  had  not  thought  of  that.  But  do  you  think  Juliet 
could  have  helped  being  in  love  with  Romeo  ?  " 

"  Of  course  she  could.  Why,  if  llomeo  had  been  a  mar- 
ried man — and  so  he  might  have  been  for  aught  she  knew  at 
first — what  would  she  have  done  ?  Put  him  out  of  her  head, 
of  course,  or  been  a  great  sinner.  Nothing  is  impossible  with 
a  good  will,  and  the  grace  of  Grod." 

Strange  to  say,  it  had  not  yet  occurred  to  Gertrude  that 
the  stranger  who  had  made  so  singular  an  impression  upon 
her,  the  day  before,  might  be  married ;  and  Juliet's  words 
passed  through  her  mind  :  "  If  he  be  married,  my  grave  is 
like  to  be  my  wedding-bed."  She  smiled  at  her  own  folly,  for 
she  had  formed  no  definite  hopes  or  ideas  connected  with  that 
person,  but  wished  to  indulge  to  the  uttermost  the  recollection 
of  that  brief  interview,  and  to  build  upon  it  certain  romantic 
dreams  incompatible  with  such  a  possibility.  However, 
making  an  effort  over  herself,  she  recurred  to  the  subject  of 
the  girl  who  had  died  that  day. 

"  Had  she  during' her  illness  all  the  comforts  that  she  could 
want  1  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes. — she  did  not  care  much  for  anything  of  the  kind,  but 
what  was  needful  she  had.  What  she  seemed  most  anxious 
about  were  her  funeral  expenses,  that  they  should  not  be  a 
burthen  to  her  parents." 

"  And  what  has  been  done  about  that?  " 

"'  M.  d'Arberg  pays  for  them  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  M.  d'Arberg.  that  foreigner  who  is  staying  at  Wood- 
land's." ■ 


LADY-BIRD.  Ill 

"  What  M.  d' Arbernj '?     Not  Maurice  Redmond's  friend  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  same.  Did  not  you  see  him  yesterday  ?  I  just 
caught  siglit  of  him  as  I  was  leaving  the  house.  He  came  to 
me  the  other  day  to  speak  about  the  poor  Thorns,  and  I  have 
met  him  two  or  three  times  at  their  cottage." 

"  IIow  did  he  find  them  out,  I  wonder?  " 

'•  One  of  Thorn's  sons  liad  been  liis  groom.  I  believe. 
He  is  not  quite  a  stranger  in  this  neighbourhood.  There  is 
some  connection  between  him  and  the  Apleys." 

"  Is  he  tall  and  dark,  and  like  the  picture  of  St.  Francis 
Borgia  in  mamma's  room  ?  " 

'•  Ay,  well  perhaps  he  is.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  seen  his  fact 
before.     He  is  more  like  a  Spaniard  than  a  Frenchman." 

'•But  is  he  French?" 

"  Partly  so ;  his  father  was  a  German,  I  believe,  natural- 
ised in  France  ;  his  motlier  was  English  or  Irish,  I  don't  know 
which.  Have  you  never  heard  of  his  books? — But  I  forget, 
you  only  read  this  sort  of  thing,"  and  with  his  stick  he 
pointed  contemptuously  at  the  prostrate  novel. 

"You  k:iow  you  do  not  recommend  French  books  to  rac, 
Father  Litford,"  Gertrude  meekly  answered,  with  a  merry 
look  in  her  eyes,  for  her  heart  was  bounding  wilh  delight. 

"  That  is  because  you  love  poison,  and  French  poison  is 
the  worst  of  all.  Well.  I  must  go  home  now  :  it  is  getting 
late." 

"  0  do  stop  a  minute  longer,  or  let  me  walk  back  with 
you  ;.  I  don't  mind  the  sun.  But  tell  me  about  M.  d'Arberg 
and  his  books." 

'•  Why,  most  Frenchmen  are  humbugs,  but  1  believe  he  is 
a  good  man." 

'•  Most  Frenchmen  humbugs  !  Now,  Father  Liflford,  that 
is  the  sort  of  thing  you  say,  but  I  am  sure  you  don't  mean, 
and  it  vexes  me  so  !  " 

"  Well,  put  mamj  for  most^  and  then  the  phrase  will 
do." 

"  Strike  out  French  also,  and  it  will  do  still  better." 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  assent  to  that  omission.  Come,  open 
the  umbrella, — the  sun  will  make  your  silly  head  ache." 

"  What  has  M.  d'xVrberg  written?  " 

'•  Philosophical  Essays  on  Christianity.  I  hate  that  word 
Philosophy  ;   but  he  means  well." 

"  And  do  you  like  the  book  ?  " 

''  Very  well ;  as  much  as  I  can  like  any  French  book.     Ho 


112*  LADY-BIRD. 

has  some  peculiar  notions ;  but  on  the  whole  it  is  well  enough. 
But  nothing  of  that  sort  suits  ijoii^  j^ou  know.     Verse-books, 
aiitl  storj'-books.  and  trash  are  your  delight." 
"  Wliat  is  ]M.  d'Arberg  doing  here?  " 

"  Why,  visiting  his  friends,  I  suppose.  Somebody  said  he 
had  property  hereabouts  that  his  mother  left  him  He  is 
poking  about  amongst  the  Irish  poor  in  the  manufacturing 
towns,  they  say.  I  hope  he  has  not  got  a  bee  in  his 
bonnet." 

''Have  you  that  book  here.  Father  Lifford?"  Gertrude 
asked,  as  they  readied  the  house. 

"  It  belongs  to  Maurice  lledmond  ;  but  [  believe  I  have 
it  in  my  room." 

'•Will  you  lend  it  me?" 
"  You  will  not  read  it." 

"  Shall  I  promise  to  do  so?  "   she  asked,  with  a  smile. 
"  No,  but  if  I  let  you  have  it,  you   must   leave  off  poring 
over    those    trashy   novels    that    are    always   lying    on    your 
table." 

"  Do  you  call  '  Delphine'  trash  ?  " 

"  Ay,  and  the  worst  species  of  it, — all  the  more  mis- 
chievous for  its  cleverness." 

"  Have  you  read  it,  Father  Lifford?  " 

"  No,  I  never  read  such  things ;  but  I  know  enough  of  its 
tendency  to  warn  you  against  it." 

"  Then  I  will  bring  you  all  the  volumes,  though  I  am 
dying  to  know  the  end  of  the  story,  and  you  shall  give  me  M. 
d'Arberg's  book  instead.  That  will  be  an  exchange  that  will 
suit  us  both." 

With  these  words  she  left  him,  and  in  a  moment  appeared 
at  the  door  of  his  room  with  the  novel  in  her  hand,  and  carried 
off,  as  a  miser  bears  away  a  load  of  sterling  gold,  the  books 
which  had  now  become  so  full  of  interest  to  her. 

She  went  into  the  library  on  the  first  floor,  and  to  her  ac- 
customed couch,  the  window  seat. 

The  huge  spider  was,  as  usual,  laying  in  wait  in  his  web, 
a,nd  the  dying  flies  strewed  about  the  floor ;  her  favourite 
books  were  in  their  places,  but  she  passed  them  with  an  indif- 
ferent eye,  for  all  hei\  interest  was  absorbed  by  the  volumes  in 
her  hand.  The  name  of  Adrien  d'Arberg  was  on  the  title- 
page,  and  it  was  his  thoughts  that  she  was  going  to  read. 
Silently,  he  would  speak  to  her  again,  in  her  solitude,  and  she 
would  learn  to  know  him,  even  without  meeting  him  again. 


LADY-BIRD.  113 

But  now  that  she  knew  his  name,  how  many  recollections  of 
what  Maurice  had  related  to  her  about  him,  crowded  on  lier 
memory,  and  how  well  they  suited  with  his  face,  with  his 
voice,  and  with  his  attitude  !  Even  then  he  was  no  stranger 
to  her,  and  what  would  it  be  when  she  should  have  read 
through  those  volumes,  into  which  so  much  of  his  soul  and 
his  mind  must  have  passed? 

She  began  to  read  ;  the  style  was  entirely  new  to  her. 
She  was  nol  well  acquainted  with  that  species  of  modern 
literature  to  which  this  book  belonged,  tliough  well  versed  iu 
the  writings  of  past  times,  both  in  French  and  in  English  ; 
she  liad  never  before  met  with  a  work  which  employed  against 
vice  and  impiety  all  the  ftiscinations  of  style,  the  sarcastic  in- 
genuity, and  the  inijiassioned  sensibility,  that  are  so  often  dis- 
played in  their  service.  It  took  her  by  surprise.  Almost 
every  one  has  known,  at  least  once  in  their  lives,  what  it  is 
to  meet  with  a  book  in  which,  as  if  for  the  first  time,  another 
mind  answers  their  own  mind  ;  and  the  vague  sketches  which 
were  lying  on  the  surface  of  the  soul  are  filled  up,  as  it  were, 
by  a  master's  hand.  We  then  almost  worship  the  spirit  that 
speaks  to  us  through  its  pages. 

There  are  various  magicians  of  this  description  —  evil 
spirits  and  good — ever  at  work  in  that  line  :  much  is  dormant 
in  human  hearts  which  their  spells  can  awaken  into  exist- 
ence. Have  you  ever  gazed  in  a  sculptor's  studio  on  the 
rough  block  of  marble  out  of  which  is  to  come  forth  the  con- 
ception of  his  genius  ?  I'erhaps  the  likeness  of  some  beauti- 
ful child  of  earth,  or  the  fanciful  image  of  a  Pagan  divinity, — 
the  triumph  of  form,  the  dream  of  sensuality  ;  or  else  the  sub- 
lime result  ot  a  Christian's  meditation,  or  a  poet's  inspiration 
There  it  lies — ready  to  appear  at  the  command,  and  beneath 
the  hand  of  its  master.  Has  not  the  author  with  his  pen 
sometimes  the  same  power  as  the  sculptor  with  his  chisel? 
May  he  not  call  into  life,  and  mould  into  form  those  vague 
and  floating  tendencies  which  haunt  the  human  soul?  I^Iay 
he  not  breathe  passions  yet  vmknown  into  its  secret  recesses, 
and  arouse  vices  into  play  which  were  passively  awaiting  hia 
foul  touch  ? — or,  on  the  other  hand,  may  he  not  awaken  the 
love  of  virtue  by  the  intense  homage  he  pays  her  ;  kindle  de- 
votion by  the  flame  that  flies  from  his  bosom  to  his  pen,  and 
sound  the  call  to  perfection  by  the  clarion-cry  of  his  own 
faith  ? 

These  things  have  been  done,  and   are  doing  every  day. 


1 1 4  LADY-BIRD. 

Life  and  death  ai'o  handed  down  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion, in  the  phcenix-llke  immortality  of  those  works  which,  in 
edition  after  edition,  transmit  their  poison  or  their  balm  from 
one  age  to  another.  The  hand  of  Voltaire  ! — the  hand  of  St, 
Francis  of  Sales  ! — helpless,  lifeless,  and  motionless  they  lie 
in  the  shrine  of  the  Pantheon,  and  in  the  humble  church  of 
Anneey.  till  the  day  of  the  Resurrection  ! — their  works,  in  the 
words  of  the  Bible,  "  are  gone  before  them,"  ay,  before  them 
in  one  sense,  but  have  tarried  behind  them  in  another. 

Gertrude  read,  and  thought,  and  read  again,  and  the  hours 
flew  by  unheeded.  As  certain  perfumes  have  more  power 
when  the  frame  is  peculiarly  susceptible, — as  certain  sounds 
vibrate  on  the  ear  with  more  force  at  one  moment  than  at  an- 
other, according  to  the  bodily  state,  so  books  impress  the 
mind  at  certain  times  in  a  way  which,  earlier  or  later,  they 
might  not  have  done.  And  it  is  probable  that  the  strong 
impression  which  Adrien  had  made  upon  her,  during  that 
brief  instant  when  a  few  words  had  passed  between  them, 
paved  the  way  for  the  effect  which  his  writings  were  to  have 
upon  her.  They  did  not  treat  exclusively  of  religion  or  of 
morality  ; — they  were  not  wholly  ascetic  or  imaginative,  argu- 
mentative or  illustrative.  They  had  been  originallj^  written 
with  a  limited  purpo«;e.  but  an  unlimited  scope, — to  convince 
a  dear  friend  of  the  irutli  of  Religion,  not  by  evidences  alone, 
not  by  sentiments  merely,  but  by  every  appeal  to  reason — 
every  illustration  from  analogy — every  weapon  offensive  and 
defensive  which  Truth  and  Intellect  can  furnish,  and  Faith 
and  Genius  can  wield. 

Gertrude  had  never  had  even  an  intellectual  doubt  of  the 
truth  of  her  religion,  and  im.perfect  as  her  conduct  often  wa.s, 
it  would  have  been  often  more  blamable  but  for  the  restrain- 
ing power  which  that  religion  exercised  over  her :  at  certain 
times  of  her  life  she  had  known  the  joys  of  devotion,  but  her 
intellect  had  not  been  sufficiently  appealed  to  Her  under- 
standing had  not  yet  grasped  the  extraordinary  relation  that 
exists  between  Faith  in  its  full  Catholic  sense  and  everything 
great,  good,  and  beautiful  in  the  domain  of  reason  and  of  feel- 
ing— of  science  and  of  art.  Adrien's  writings  seemed  to  open 
before  her  new  vistas  in  every  direction,  and  to  display  the 
whole  marvellous  connection  between  the  highest  intellectual 
aspirations  of  the  human  mind,  and  the  smallest  point  of  re- 
vealed doctrine.  Religion  no  longer  appeared  as  something 
true  and  sacred  indeed,  but  as  concerned  only  with  one  per- 


LADY-UIHD.  116 

tion  of  man's  heart — one  region  of  his  soul — one  aspect  of  his 
life;  but  as  the  point  on  which  his  whole  existence  revolves, 
on  which  his  puldic  as  well  as  his  private  actions  must  turn, 
the  only  principle,  the  ruling  power,  the  absolute  master  of 
every  impulse,  the  disposer  of  every  hour. 

She  saw  the  visible  world  not  merely  moving  alongside  but 
encompassed  on  every  side  by  a  supernatural  one,  the  contact 
of  which  becomes  every  day  more  startlingly  plain.  It  alluded 
to  the  modern  discoveries  of  science,  so  extraordinarily  illus- 
trative of  the  faith  of  the  Church  :  it  spoke  of  the  sublime 
aspirations  through  which  the  old  philosophers  felt  their  way 
after  truth,  and  how  Plato  dared  to  guess  what  the  first  Cate- 
chism teaches.  The  perfectibility  of  man  in  its  Cliristian 
sense,  the  mystery  of  his  vocation,  the  depths  to  which  he  falls, 
the  heights  to  which  he  rises,  were  dwelt  on  each  in  turn. 
Through  the  confessions  of  sceptics,  the  admissions  of  enemies, 
the  homage  of  antagonists,  through  history  and  science,  through 
the  mind  to  the  soul,  the  chain  of  evidence  made  its  way. 
The  reasoning  was  close  and  as  calm  as  truth,  but  the  feeling 
was  intense,  and  fervent  as  love.  It  was  as  clever  as  if  the 
intellect  alone  had  been  employed  upon  it ;  it  was  as  persua- 
sive as  if  the  heart  had  alone  been  engaged  in  it.  Was  it 
strange  that  it  absorbed  her? — then  roused  and  then  strength- 
ened lie'r?  That  new  thoughts,  new  interests,  new  resolutions, 
were  formed  ? — that  her  studies  were  changed  ? — that  her 
hours  were  spent  differently  ? — that  to  get  a  book  alluded  to 
in  lluit  book,  and  they  were  many,  became  one  of  her  greatest 
pleasures? — that  to  learn  some  of  its  eloquent  pages  by  heart 
was  her  recreation? — that  stealing  to  her  mother's  side  when- 
ever her  health  allowed  of  it,  she  read  to  her  those  passages 
which  were  most  calculated  to  please  her,  and  then  kissing 
away  the  tears  that  sometimes  stole  down  her  face,  she  would 
lay  her  cheek  against  hers  and  whi-sper,  "  I  knew  you  would 
like  it !  " 

This  was  all  well,  but  it  was  better  still  that  in  many 
practical  ways  she,  day  by  day,  improved, — that  she  was  more 
assiduous  in  her  devotions,  more  patient  in  little  trials,  less 
bitter  towards  her  father,  more  tender  to  her  mother, — that 
she  appreciated  Father  Lifiord's  qualities  more,  and  cared  less 
for  his  peculiarities.  But  it  was  not  so  well  that  a  strong  hu- 
man feeling  was  mixed  up  with  all  this,  though  it  may  be  that 
Heaven's  mere}'  may  work  good  through  its  means.  The  sand 
on  which  this  promising  edifice  is  rising  may   indeed   harden 


116  LADY-BIRD. 

into  stone,  and  the  winds  blow,  and  the  rain  fall,  and  its  fair 
proportions  stand, — for  in  that  case  it  will  be  founded  on  the 
rock  But  if  it  rests  on  nothing  but  the  shifting  ground  of 
passion  or  of  fancy — what  then  will  be  its  fate? 

She  is  always  copying  the  Due  de  Gandia's  pictur.e,  and 
she  has  written  under  it  these  lines  from  her  old  favourite 
MetastasiOj  though  she  seldom  reads  him  now — 

"  E  provianio  al  mondo 
Ohe  nato  in  iiobil  core 
Sol  frutti  cli  virtu 
Produce  amore." 


CHAPTER  X. 

"A  prince  can  make  a  belted  knight, 
A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  tfiat, 
I>ut  an  liDneft  iiian's  abnon  his  might, 
Guid  fjitli !  he  inauna"  fa"  that, 
For  a'  that  :ind  a'  tliat, 
Thoir  dignities  and  a"  tliat, 
Tlie  ]nt\\  o'  sense,  and  pride  o"  worth 
Arc  Inglu'r  ranks  tlian  a  that" 

Burns 

"  Virtue  an(i  knowledtre  are  endowments  trreater 
Tliaii  noljleness  and  riclies;  careless  lieirs 
May  tlie  two  latter  darken  and  expand; 
i'.iit  iiiMnonality  attends  the  former, 
Making  man  a  god." 

SlIAKKSrEARfc 

Weeks  and  months  passed  away,  and  nothing  worthy  of  re- 
mark disturbed  tlie  even  tenor  of  Grcrtrude's  life.  She  went 
once  or  twice  to  Woodlands,  but  the  Apleys  were  often  away, 
and  none  of  them  except  Mark  seemed  particularly  anxious  to 
keep  up  the  acquaintance.  Perhaps  they  had  been  alarmed 
at  his  evident  admiration  of  her,  and  did  not  wish  to  encour- 
age any  further  intimacy  between  them.  Whenever  he  was  at 
home  he  contrived  to  meet  her  in  her  walks,  and  to  inter- 
change a  few  woi'ds  with  her.  Sometimes,  when  his  manner 
was  particularly  eager,  it  occurred  to  her  how  easily,  by  a  lit- 
tle encouragement,  she  might  bring  him  to  propose  to  her,  and 
what  a  change  would  thus  be  brought  about  in  her  destiny ; 
but  it  was  never  more  tlian  a  passing  thought.  Her  romantiu 
admiration  for  Adrien  d'Arberg  forbade  her  entertaining  it ; 


LADY-BIRD.  117 

and  tlumgh  she  liked  these  brief  interviews,  and  her  manner 
did  not  by  any  means  deter  Mark  from  seeking  them,  yet  one 
of  the  "  fruits  of  virtue,"  which  grew  out  of  that  sentiment  waa 
a  reserve  in  encouraging  attentions,  which  doubtless,  as  far  as 
they  went,  were  by  no  means  disagreeable  to  her. 

But  til  is  very  reserve  increased  Mark's  admiration.  At  the 
breakfast  he  had  been  fascinated  by  her  beauty,  and  amused 
by  her  cleverness,  which  he  did  not  quite  understand,  though 
it  charmed  him  like  a  firework  or  a  French  play;  but  when 
he  met  her  now,  there  was  something  more  thoughtful  in  her 
face,  more  gentle  in  her  manner  ;  and  this  became  her  so  well, 
and  gave  him  such  an  interest  about  her,  that  he  would  some- 
times sit  on  liis  horse  at  the  gate  of  Lifford  Grange,  gazing 
with  a  wistful  look  at  her  retreating  figure,  as  she  walked  up 
the  sepulchral  avenue  of  yew  trees  towards  that  house  into 
which  no  strangers  ever  entered,  and  which  appeared  to  him 
almost  like  an  enchanted  palace. 

Gertrude  had  amused  herself  one  day  by  telling  him  a 
wonderful  ghost-story  about  it,  which  made  his  hair  stand  on 
end,  but  which  he  liked  so  much  to  hear  her  relate,  that  almost 
every  time  he  met  her.  lie  used  to  begin  again  with,  *'  Now  you 
know  I  don't  believe  that  story  you  told  me  the  other  day ;" 
and  each  time  she  added  some  new  detail,  which  made  him 
exclaim,  "  0  now  come,  tliat  is  too  bad — you  don't  expect  me 
to  believe  that?"  ])ut  he  went  away  for  a  long  time  that 
winter,  and  Gertrude  missed  him  much,  for  it  was  impossible 
not  to  like  to  have  her  path  cro.«sed  by  such  a  kind  smile,  and 
such  cheerful  words.  His  good  humour  was  like  sunshine, 
and  his  merry  laugh  had  grown  familiar  to  her  as  something 
that  belonged  to  those  lanes  and  commons  where  she  so 
often  met  him — as  the  smell  of  the  gorse,  or  the  song  of  the 
birds. 

She  still  went  often  to  the  cottage  at  Stonehouseleigh, 
and  now  had  a  new  and  powerful  interest  in  talking  to  Mau- 
rice. She  asked  him  a  thousand  questions  about  the  places 
where  he  had  been  with  M.  d'Arberg.  During  the  years  that 
he  had  spent  with  him  in  Rome,  he  had  been  engaged  in  writ- 
ing that  work  which  had  so  deeply  interested  her,  and  every 
minute  detail  concerning  it  she  listened  to  with  avidity. 

"  We  lived  at  that  time,"  Maurice  told  her,  "in  an  apart- 
ment near  the  qiiattre  Fontane.  and  M.  d'Arberg  used  to 
write  in  a  little  garden  full  of  violets,  with  a  trellis  of  lemon- 
trees  on  one  side,  and  a  view  over  Rome  on  the  other.     I 


118  LADY-BIRD. 

often  looked  at  bim  as  he  sat  at  work,  aud  thought  what  a 
good  model  he  would  have  afforded  a  painter  for  a  St.  John 
writing  his  Gospel,  or  a  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  his  Summa :  he 
never  looked  impatient  or  anxious,  but  used  to  write  those 
eloquent  pages  so  composedly  and  fluently  that  I  could  almost 
have  fancied  I  saw  his  guardian  angel  by  his  side  dictating  to 
him  ;  and  if  anybody  interrupted  him — some  tiresome  ac- 
quaintance, or  some  begging  friar — he  would  put  down  his 
pen,  and  listen  to  them  with  a  countenance  as  undisturbed  as 
if  he  had  nothing  else  in  the  woi-ld  to  occupy  or  engross  him. 
When  I  look  back  to  the  time  I  spent  with  that  man,  I  can' 
hardly  believe  in  the  perfection  of  his  character, — so  perfect, 
just  because  it  had  so  little  pretension." 

'•  He  must  be,  however,  a  person  to  be  afraid  of,"  Ger- 
trude said  ;  '•  goodness  and  cleverness  combined  would  always 
be  somewhat  awful,  I  should  think  ' 


!) 


"  Well,  I  never  felt  that  with  him.  He  is  so  very  indul- 
gent,— not  merely  tliat  he  will  not  say  severe  things,  but  one 
feels  sure  he  does  not  think  them." 

"  Yet  in  his  writings  he  lashes  with  merciless  severity  cer- 
tain modes  of  action  and  of  thought." 

"  Ay,  but  no  one  ever  made  a  wider  distinction  between 
the  sin  and  the  sinner,  the  error  that  blinds  a  man,  and  the 
man  whom  error  blinds ;  he  made  a  brilliant  campaign  in  Al- 
geria some  years  ago,  and  was  as  distinguished  by  his  valour 
at  that  time  as  he  has  been  since  by  his  literary  labours." 

"  And  what  made  him  leave  the  army?  " 

"  He  had  only  entered  it  for  a  particular  purpose.  The 
first  year  that  he  went  into  society  at  Paris  he  happened  to 
defend  the  character  of  one  of  his  friends  with  so  much 
warmth,  that  the  person  who  had  slandered  that  friend  con- 
ceived himself  insulted,  and  called  him  out.  He  refused  to 
fight,  but  the  very  next  day  proceeded  to  join  the  African 
army,  where  he  established  a  reputation  which  raised  him 
above  the  suspicion  of  cowardice.  A  splendid  career  was 
open  to  him,  but  he  had  no  vocation  for  a  military  life,  and 
retired  from  it  as  soon  as  a  peace  was  concluded.  He  was 
adored  by  the  troop  he  commanded — indeed  I  have  nevei 
met  with  any  one  who  has  had  any  intercourse  with  him,  whc 
could  resist  the  influence  of  his  character  and  of  his  manners 
Have  you  read  the  life  he  wrote  of  Queen  Christina,  o 
Sweden  ^  "  . 

"  0  no  ;  have  you  got  it  ? " 


i.AOY-nmn.  119 

"  1  am  afraid  not.  I  went  with  him  into  the  Tyrol,  just 
at  the  time  he  was  busy  with  it.  He  wished  to  see  the  Fran- 
ciscan Church  at  Inspruck,  which  is  connected  with  her  his- 
tory. I  shall  never  forget  liis  admiration  of  the  wonderful 
tomb  of  the  Emperor  Maximilian,  in  that  glorious  church. 
Those  twenty-eiglit  colossal  bronze  figures  keeping  their  silent 
mireiiiitting  watch  over  the  monument  of  the  great  warrior. 
How  he  liked  the  Tyrol  !  There  was  something  so  congenial 
to  his  feelings,  so  akin  to  his  own  character,  in  the  strength 
and  simplicity  of  its  people  ;  in  the  intimate  connection  be- 
tween the  highest  beauties  of  nature,  the  devotional  spirit  of 
the  inhabitants,  and  the  pervading  influence  of  religion,  which 
seems  there  to  impregnate  the  very  air — to  turn  every  liill  into 
a  Calvary,  every  valley  into  an  oratory,  and  every  church-yard 
into  a  garden.  We  had  been  staying  at  Venice,  the  city  of 
my  idolatry,  the  enchantress  of  tlie  earth,  the  goddess  of  the 
sea;  beauty  bewildering  every  sense,  music  floating  on  the 
breeze,  romance  hovering  over  each  stone  of  it,^  palaces,  each 
ripple  of  its  wave,  every  stroke  of  the  oar,  every  turn  of  the 
lagoons.  I  still  remembered  its  moonliglit  niglits,  its  noonday 
breezes  ;  the  Byzantine  churches  with  their  eastern  cupolas, 
their  mosaic  pavements,  their  marble  landing-places  ;  the 
gentle  spla.sli  of  tlie  water  as  we  neared  them  in  tlie  gondolas; 
the  musical  cry  of  the  gondoliers,  as  we  shot  swiftly  round  tho 
corners  ;  the  soft  sweet  accents  of  the  Venetian  tongue ;  the 
luxurious  repose  of  the  body  ;  the  dreaming  activity  of  the 
excited  imagination, — it  was  all  vivid  in  my  mind  as  an 
Eastern  story  just  perused,  as  a  fairy  tale  realised  ;  and  when 
M.  d'Arberg  pointed  out  to  me  one  night  the  moon  shining 
coldly  ar.d  sternly  on  one  of  tlic  snowy  peaks  of  the  Alps, 
while  the  forests  of  fir  beneath  were  lying  in  darkness,  except 
where  a  solitary  lamp  (an  earthly  star  as  he  called  it)  was 
burning  before  a  way-side  sanctuary,  half  way  down  the 
mountain,  I  could  not  forbear  exclaiming,  'Give  me  back 
St.  Mark  and  its  piazza,  the  sky  of  Italy  and  the  moon  of 
Venice.'  He  smiled  and  said,  '  T  am  afraid.  Maurice,  that 
you  would  have  preferred  the  enchantress,  Armida,  to  the 
lady  in  Comus.'  " 

Gertrude's  eyes  were  riveted  on  Maurice,  and  she  longed 
for  him  to  talk  on.  He  saw  those  eyes  aisd  their  expression  ; 
at  that  moment  there  flashed  across  him  something  that  was  at 
once  like  a  fear  and  a  hope.  How  many  ideas  the  brain  can 
nold  in  one  instant,  and  what  difterent  emotions  agitate   the 


120  LADYBIRD. 

licart  at  tlic  same  time !  He  thought  of  their  childish  sports 
in  the  forest ;  he  thought  of  the  lessons  he  had  given  her — of 
her  appearance  at  the  cottage  the  day  that  her  father  had  dis- 
missed him — of  the  way  in  which  she  had  come  and  stood  by 
his  side,  when  he  was  taken  ill  at  the  Woodlands'  breakfast; 
and  now  how  often  she  took  occasion  to  stop  at  the  cottage, 
and  to  linger  there  in  conversation  with  him :  and  the  ex- 
pression of  her  eyes  just  then  !  There  was  a  light  in  them  he 
had  never  seen  before,  and  which  seemed  to  put  him  beside 
himself.  Was  it  possible  that  she  loved  him  ?  It  was  a 
sensation  of  rapture  mixed  with  a  thousand  misgivings  and 
apprehensions. 

His  safety,  his  peace,  had  consisted  hitherto  in  the  utter 
hoplessness  of  the  sentiment,  the  dream,  the  passion — which- 
ever it  was — that  he  had  conceived  :  but  in  the  light  of  that 
moment's  wild  hope  he  saw  his  own  poverty,  he  saw  duty, 
honour,  and  Mary  arrayed  before  liini  in  despairing  distinct- 
ness. He  was  one  of  those  men  who  have  the  love  but  not  the 
courage  of  virtue.  That  he  had  hitherto  felt  her  to  be  utterly 
out  of  his  reach  had  been  almost  a  satisfaction  to  him,  for  he 
fancied  there  was  neither  danger  nor  guilt  in  worshipping  her 
at  a  distance.  That  could  be  no  injury  to  her,  and  no 
treachery  to  Marj'.  But  this  new  hope,  this  sudden  suspicion 
tliat  she  was  not  indifiFerent  to  the  homage  which  his  eyes  and 
voice  and  actions  had  involuntarily  paid  her — was  it  bliss  or 
was  it  pain  1  There  she  was  with  that  fatal  beauty  which  had 
so  long  enthralled  him.  Ay,  he  had  often  before  compared 
her  to  Italy,  and  applied  to  her  loveliness  that  startling 
epithet.  There  she  was,  resting  her  face  on  her  hand,  and 
bidding  him  tell  her  more  about  his  travels,  more  about 
M.  d'Arberg  and  himself,  and  their  life  at  Ivome  and  Venice, 
their  walks  on  the  sea-shore,  and  their  communings  by  the 
way,  and  each  time  there  was  a  pause  recurring  to  the  same 
subject. 

Another  person  in  that  room  was  listening  and  watching 
also, — 

"  One  who  had  poured  her  heart's  rich  trea.sure  forth, 
And  been  unrepaid  for  its  priceless  worth." 

Whether  Gertrude  was  consciously  or  unconsciously  stealing 
away  from  her  the  love  which  had  been  the  sunshine  of  her 
life  she  knew  not,  and  had  the  virtue  not  to  decide;  but  the 
effect  was  the  same.    "  She  is  breaking  my  happiness  to  pieces," 


LADY-BIRD.  121 

was  Mary's  feeling ;  "  perhaps  only  as  a  child  might  destroy  a 
flower  of  great  price  which  had  fallen  in  its  way.  My  all  can 
be  10  her  but  the  plaything  of  the  hour,  and  yet  she  uses  it  as 
such,  and  seems  not  to  know  what  she  is  doing.  0  Maurice, 
my  beloved  one!  You  are  not  made  for  trials;  you  are  not 
fitted  for  conflicts  with  the  world  and  your  own  heart.  I 
might  have  stood  between  you  and  many  dangers  ;  but  this 
one  nothing  that  I  can  do  may  avert.  It  is  as  if  you  were 
sinking  into  a  gulf  or  falling  over  a  precipice,  and  I  was  forced 
to  stand  by  and  see  you  perish,  with  my  hands  tied  and  my 
mouth  gagged.  Could.  I  but  make  you  feel  that  if  you  love 
her  she  will  break  your  heart!  " 

Always  after  Gertrude's  visits  Maurice  was  more  afl'ection- 
ate  than  usual  to  Mary,  and  there  was  a  refinement  in  the  pain 
that  this  gave  her.  It  seemed  as  if  the  very  source  of  her 
happiness  was  poi'Boned,  for  these  mute  apologies  were  more 
grievous  to  her  than  unkindness  would  have  been.  Yet  her 
manner  never  betrayed  the  least  irritation  ;  only  there  was  a 
grave  tenderness  in  her  countenance  quite  difi"erent  from  the 
beaming  look  and  playful  shake  of  the  head  with  which  she 
had  hitherto  received  his  assurances  of  afi"ection. 

The  winter  passed  by,  and  the  spring  also.  Maurice  went 
to  London  for  some  months,  where  he  gave  lessons  and  played 
at  conccvts  with  considerable  success,  but  the  tone  of  his 
letters  to  Mary  was  restless  and  dissatisfied.  It  seemed  as  if 
he  could  neither  stay  at  nor  away  from  Stonehouseleigh  with 
any  comfort.  lie  complained  sometimes  that  she  did  not 
urge  hiUi  to  come  back,  that  she  did  not  write  to  him  often 
enough.  He  spoke  of  his  own  health  in  a  tone  of  depression, 
and  of  London  with  abhorrence.  Mary's  trial  increased,  for 
now  she  hardly  knew  what  was  her  duty,  what  was  best  for 
him.  Any  sacrifice  she  was  ready  to  make,  but  feared  to  take 
any  step  either  backwards  or  forwards.  It  seemed  to  her  best 
to  wait  and  to  watch,  and  Heaven  knows  there  is  often  more 
sufl'ering  in  this  than  in  any  decision,  but  of  that  she  never 
thought. 

In  the  course  of  the  summer  Edgar  Liftord  came  home  :  ho 
was  a  hand.'^ome  and  amiable  youth,  with  a  great  deal  of  infor- 
mation and  a  little  pedantry.  Gertrude — who  was  very  glad 
of  his  return — laughed  at  him.  and  he  did  not  resent  it,  but 
treated  her  with  great  condescension,  and  explained  to  her 
many  things  which  he  supposed  she  did  not  understand. 
Great  pains  had  been  taken  with  him,  and  he  had  had  admi- 


122  L'DY-BIRD. 

rable  instructors,  but  the  essential  part  of  the  intellect  was 
wanting,  although  he  might  have  been  said  to  have  good 
parts,  according  to  the  strict  letter  ot"  that  phrase,  for  his 
memory  and  his  aptitude  for  learning  were  remarkable.  There 
was  nothing  he  could  not.  and  I  had  almost  said,  did  not  com- 
mit to  memory.  lie  was  almost  too  young  to  be  prosy,  but  he 
promised  much  in  that  line,  especially  if  that  shocking  opinion 
be  correct,  that  it  is  not  possible  to  be  a  thorough-paced  bore, 
without  possessing  a  great  deal  of  information. 

Mrs.  Lifibrd  loved  her  son's  goodness,  his  honest  face,  his 
civility  to  every  one,  and  she  imagined  that  his  residence  at 
home  would  be  a  great  advantage  and  comfort  to  Gertrude. 
Mr.  Lifibrd  was  as  fond  of  his  son  as  he  could  be  of  anything; 
but  as  he  was  himself  clever  in  his  way — though  no  one  could 
make  less  use  of  his  natural  gifts — he  quickly  perceived  his 
son's  intellectual  deficiencies,  and  felt  an  additional  irritation 
at  Gertrude's  superiority.  When,  with  a  few  words  of  lively 
sarcasm,  hitting  exactly  the  nail  on  the  head,  she  overturned 
the  well-set,  po)iderous  array  of  her  brother's  reasonings,  or, 
when  he  was  really  in  the  right,  managed  to  make  his  argu- 
ments appear  ridiculous,  his  brow  grew  darker  still  than  usual, 
and  there  was  something  painful  in  the  looks  he  cast  upon 
her. 

Now  that  Edgar  was  old  enough  to  dine  with  them,  there 
was  a  great  deal  more  conversation  at  Lifibrd  Grange  than 
was  usually  the  case.  That  it  was  lively  could  scarcely  be 
said,  for  the  two,  who,  in  difi"erent  ways,  might  have  made  it 
so — that  is,  Gertrude  and  her  uncle — were  the  most  silent, 
and  Mr.  Liff"ord  and  his  son  had  it  a  good  deal  to  themselves. 
One  day  a  little  scene  occurred,  which  was  animated,  at  least, 
if  not  lively.  Mr.  Lifi'ord  had  been  pronouncing  himself  very 
strongly  against  all  modern  innovations,  in  which  he  included 
the  diffusion  of  education  amongst  the  poor,  lodging-houses, 
wash-houses,  and  emigration,  all  of  which  he  declared  to  have 
a  Socialist  and  revolutionary  tendency.  "  All  this  fuss  made 
about  the  poor  at  this  time  is  only  a  species  of  cant  which 
belongs  to  the  age,  and  has  not  an  atom  of  real  charity  in  it." 

"  True  charity,"  Edgar  observed,  "  consists,  in  my  opinion, 
in  individual  exertions,  not  in  combined  action.  Thus  grati- 
tude is  awakened  in  the  breasts  of  the  poor,  and  kindness  in 
those  of  their  superiors." 

"  But,  my  dear  Edgnr.  you  cannot  individually  wash  the 
poor,  nor  can  you  swim  with  tliem  on  your  back  to  Australia, 
so  that  some  combined  action  may  be  useful." 


LADY-niRD.  123 

"  I  own  to  a  great  dislike  to  prospectuses,  and  lists, 
and " 

"  Bills  of  fare,"  Gertrude  maliciously  suggested,  having 
observed  that  her  brother  studied  tliat  prospectus  every  morn- 
ing with  considerable  interest. 

Mr.  Lifford  frowned  and  said,  "  Printed  papers  have  as 
seldom  any  real  connexion  with  good  works  as  pertuess  has 
with  wit." 

"  I  met  the  other  day  in  the  railway,"  jfldgar  said,  "  a  gen- 
tleman with  wlioiu  I  had  a  great  deal  of  conversation  on  phi- 
laiitlirupieal  subjects.  I  shouhi  almost  have  been  inclined  to 
think  hiui  a  Socialist  from  some  things  he  said,  only  that  it 
seemed  afterwards  that  he  was  quite  the  reverse.  As  long  as 
he  talked  of  what  the  higher  classes  should  do,  he  seemed  to 
stop  at  nothing  in  his  requirements  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  held  temporal  prosperity  for  all  sorts  of  persons  cheaper 
than  I  should  be  inclined  to  do,  though  of  course  I  know  that 
there  are  things  of  greater  importance.  He  was  a  Frenchman. 
1  found,  though  he  spoke  English  extremely  well." 

"  It  was  not  Adrien  d'Arberg,  by  chance?"  Father  Lif- 
ford  inquired. 

'•  That  was  the  name  on  his  portmanteau.  He  was  just 
come  from  France." 

Gertrude's  colour  had  risen  at  the  sound  of  the  nan)e  that 
interested  her  so  much,  and  she  said  quickly,  "  Did  he  know 
who  you  were  1  " 

"  I  found  he  did,  and  that  he  had  heard  of  my  family  and 
knew  how  ancient  it  was,  and  that  we  counted  kinjis  and  cru- 
saders  amongst  our  ancestors." 

"  IIow  you  must  have  purred  when  he  said  that,"  Gertrude 
murmured,  but  not  loud  enough  for  her  father  to  hear. 

"I  did  not  quite  aj)prove  of  his  tone  on  the  subject;  he 
liked  old  recollections  of  that  kind,  he  said,  and  the  romance 
attached  to  them.  It  was  like  the  armour  that  we  hang  upon 
our  walls,  of  no  real  value  in  these  days,  but  having  a  certain 
charm  from  association." 

"  A  manufacturer's  son,  no  doubt,  a  Jeune- France  !"'  Mr. 
Lifford  ejaculated  with  unspeakable  contempt. 

"  No,  he  does  not  belong  to  that  school,  and  he  is  a  far 
better  man  than  you  would  suppose."  Father  Liiford  answered. 

"  And  why  in  Heaven's  name,"  Gertrude  exclaimed  to  her- 
self,'•  should  one  ??oZ  suppose   him  to   be  so?     13 ut,  patience 
'  Wisdom  is  justified  of  her  childr»^n.'  " 


124  LADY-BIRD. 

'•'  He  has  written  a  clever  book  enough,  which  has  made  a 
great  sensation  in  France." 

"  0,  an  author  too  !  a  Frenchman,  and  an  author  !  From 
all  such  Heaven  deliver  us  !  I  hope,  Edgar,  that  you  were 
not  by  way  of  making  more  than  a  momentary  acquaintance 
with  him.  That  is  the  worst  of  those  infernal  railways  :  they 
expose  one  to  come  in  contact  with  all  sorts  of  people." 

"  0,  I  took  care  not  to  commit  myself  in  any  way  to  his 
acquaintance,  for  I  could  not  tell,  you  know,  what  his  birth  or 
position  in  society  might  be.  Dear  me,  Gertrude,  how  red 
you  are  !  Are  you  very  hot,  dear  sister  1 — Shall  I  open  the 
window  ?  " 

All  the  open  windows  in  the  world  would  not  have  cooled 
Gertrude's  cheeks  at  that  moment,  or  restrained  her  from 
breaking  forth.  "  I  pity  you,  brother,  if  you  could  not  dis- 
cern in  that  man's  appearance  a  surer  patent  of  true  nobility 
than  lies  in  parchments  and  escutcheons,  and  a  greater  honour 
in  liaving  had  an  hour's  conversation  with  him,  than  in  de- 
scending from  crusaders  and  Spanish  grandees." 

There  was  an  awful  pause  after  this  sentence.  The  sneer 
at  the '■  Grands  d'F.spjigne"  had  particularly  nettled  Father 
Jjifford,  who  was  more  than  half  a  Spaniard  in  his  feelings. 
Edgar  was  exceedingly  puzzled — both  at  the  extreme  impro- 
priety of  his  sister's  sentiments,  and  at  lier  warmth  on  the  sub- 
ject— as  well  he  might  be,  not  knowing  that  she  had  ever  seen 
"d'Arbcrg.  or  that  she  was  ac(|uainted  witli  his  works. 

••  Regally,  sister,"  he  began,  but  his  father  interrupted  him 
"  Pray  do  not  attempt  to  reason  with  Gertrude  ;  since  her  love 
of  contradiction  and  perversity  of  feeling  is  getting  to  the 
point  of  putting  herself  in  a  passion,  and  insulting  us  all  about 
a  perfect  stranger  in  whom  she  can  take  no  interest,  but  on 
account  of  his  probable  low  birth  and  his  sneers  at  what  wo 
value  and  respect,  the  more  we  leave  her  to  herself  the  better  ; 
only  I  do  not  choose  to  hear  such  words  uttered  again  before 
me;  and  therefore.  Miss  Lifibrd,  whatever  your  degrading 
sentiments  may  be,  take  care  that  you  never  let  me  hear  them 
again." 

Gertrude  had  been  much  to  blame,  she  knew  and  she  felt 
it,  and  her  irritation  had  vanished  ;  but  a  dull  aching  at  her 
heart  succeeded  it.  When  they  all  left  the  table  slie  went  to 
the  window,  and  laid  her  forehead  against  the  glass.  Her 
father  and  her  brother  had  left  the  room,  and  her  uncle  was 
following  them  ;    but  when  he    got  near  the    door  he   turned 


LADY-BIRD.  126 

round  to  look  at  her.  She  also  turned  at  tliat  moment,  and 
ruKhing  to  him  with  impetuosity,  threw  herself  into  his  arras. 
He  did  not  repulse  her,  but  said,  "  Pshaw,  don't  make  a  scene; 
you  are  a  bad  incorrigible  girl."  But  the  manner  was  not 
harsh  as  the  words. 

"  0  Father  Lilfurd,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  have  been  so 
wrong.  I  have  behaved  ill  to  you, — you  who  have  been  so 
kind  to  me  !  " 

"  Never  mind  that ;  you  should  grieve  at  having  displeased 
your  father." 

"  I  cannot.  You — yoit  I  am  sorry  to  have  offended,  and 
if  you  would  let  me,  I  would  kneel  to  ask  your  pardon." 

''  No,  no,  Gertrude,  not  here.  It  is  not  thus  ox  hers  that 
you  nuist  sue  for  pardon  ;  remember  your  father's  must  be 
a.sked,  and  that  not  in  outward  form  alone,  but  with  a  hum- 
bled heart  and  a  penitent  spirit.  God  bless  you,  my  child  !  " 
he  added,  for  he  saw  the  resolution  was  made,  and  the  proud 
spirit  conquered. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"I  looked,  mill  lookfil,  and  still  with  new  delistlit 
Such  jo.v  my  soul,  such  pleiisure  filled  iny  sight; 
Nor  sullen  discontent,  nor  an.vious  eare. 
Even  though  brought  liilher  could  inhahit  there, 
But  thence  they  tied  as  from  their  mortal  foe, 
For  this  sweet  place  could  oidy  pleasure  know." 

DkVI'EN. 

"  About  me  round  1  saw 
nill,  dale,  and  sliady  woods,  and  sunny  places. 
And  liijuid  la|)Pe  of  mnrnrrin<:  streams  ;  hy  these 
Creatures  that  lived  and  moved,  and  walked  or  Hew, 
Birds  on  the  branches  warbling;  all  things  stnile(l; 
With  fragrance  and  with  joy  my  lieart  o'erflowed." 

FaYKTE  QtTEBN. 

Edgar  observed  that  his  sister  was  looking  somewhat  pale 
and  out  of  spirits,  and  his  good-natured  disposition  attribu- 
ting it  partly  to  the  scene  which  had  taken  place,  and  of  which 
he  had  unintentionally  been  the  cause,  he  set  about  thinking 
on  some  mode  of  pleasing  and  amusing  her.  Having  heard 
her  express  one  day  a  great  wish  to  ride,  he  now  endeavoured 
to  find  out  some  means  of  giving  her  this  pleasure. 

"  Wotild  you  not  like  to  ride.  Gertrude,"  he  said  to  herono 


126  LADY-BIRD. 

morning.     "  Would   not  the    exercise    be   beneficial   to   youp 
health  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  would  do  to  my  health,  dear  old  boy, 
but  I  know  it  would  be  of  use  to  ray  temper, — it  would  shake 
a  great  deal  of  malice  out  of  me." 

"Would  you  be  afraid  to  ride  my  horse?  " 

"  I  would  ride  anything,  a  cow,  a  stag,  a  crow,  or  an 
eagle." 

"  It  so,  T  will  borrow  the  gamekeeper's  pony  for  myself, 
and  you  can  ride  Conqueror.  I  must  see  about  the  side-sad- 
dle, and  you  must  get  something  of  a  habit." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do  about  that.  Perhaps  I  might 
wear  mamma's,  which  has  been  put  by  for  so  many  years.  Do 
you  think  its  old-fasliioned  shape  and  embroidered  facings  will 
signify  ? " 

"  O  dear  no  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  look  very  well,  and 
we  will  go  towards  the  open  country,  where  we  shall  probably 
not  meet  any  one.  You  will  like,  perhaps,  to  see  a  large 
encampment  of  gipseys  on  Oakley  Common  ?  " 

"  0,  of  all  things  ;  I  delight  in  their  picturesque  faces. 
What  a  dear  boy  you  are,  Edgar,  to  have  thought  of  my 
riding.  I  will  copy  the  tree  for  you  this  evening,  and  njt  say 
anything  disrespectful  about  it." 

'•  I  liope  you  will  not  for  your  own  sake,  Gertrude,  and  I 
am  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  promise." 

Then  they  parted,  and  both  were  successful  in  their 
researches. 

At  five  o'clock,  for  the  day  had  been  very  warm  and  they 
did  not  start  till  then,  Gertrude  appeared  on  the  steps  in  her 
picturesque  attire,  and  sprang  lightly  on  the  horse,  which  ap- 
peared at  first  rather  uneasy  at  the  flapping  of  her  riding- 
habit,  but  went  pretty  (juietly  after  a  few  minutes.  She  was 
delighted  at  finding  herself  on  horseback,  and  when  they  got 
into  a  green  valley,  a  little  beyond  the  park,  she  set  off  at  a 
quick  canter  till  the  ground  grew  broken  and  uneven,  and  then 
they  proceeded  at  a  foot-pace  through  a  narrow  ravine,  and 
by  the  side  of  a  rapid  stream  She  was  silent,  for  her  enjoy- 
ment lay  in  thoughts  that  it  would  never  have  occurred  to  her 
to  communicate  to  Edgar  :  only  now  and  then  she  said,  "  How 
pleasant  this  is  !  "  or,  ■'  How  fine  it  is  to-day  !  "  He  stopped 
sometimes  to  gather  brandies  of  honye.sucklc  or  white  convol- 
vuluses, and  handed  them  to  her,  discoursing  the  while  on  bot 
any,  geology,  and   various   branches  of  natural  history,   and 


LADY-BIRD,  127 

telling  Iier  the  names  of  every  bird  and  insect  they  saw  on 
bush  or  hedgerow.  She  thanked  him  for  the  flowers,  and 
listened  with  apparent  interest  to  the  comments,  but  her 
thouglits  were  often  far  away. 

"  There  is  a  lady-bird,"  he  said,  as  one  of  those  little 
creatures  settled  on  his  horse's  mane. 

"  Ay,  a  lady-bird,"  she  exclaimed,  roused  from  her  abstrac- 
tion ;  "  my  namesake !  Do  not  you  remember  ? — it  is  the 
name  that  Maurice  Kedmond  and  Mary  Grey  have  always 
given  me." 

"  But  I  hope  they  don't  do  so  now,  Gertrude ;  it  would  be 
very  familiar." 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  that  he  does  not  add — 
'  and  familiarity  breeds  contempt.'"  But  without  answering 
him,  she  held  out  her  hand  and  made  tlie  little  insect  come 
upon  it,  and  gazed  upon  it  earnestly,  while  she  murmured  to 
herself  in  a  low  voice  the  pretty  nursery  rhyme — 

•'  0  lady-bird,  lady-bird,  fly  away  home, 

The  s(juirrel  aud  field-niduse  have  gone  to  their  rest, 
The  dai.sies  have  shut  up  their  sleepy  red  eyes, 

The  bees  and  the  insects  aud  birds  are  at  rest. 
O  lady- bird,  lady-bird  fly  awjiy  home, 

The  sjlow-worm  is  lighting  his  glittering  lamp, 
The  dew's  falling  fast,  and  your  fine  speckled  wings 

Will  be  moistened  and  wet  with  the  close  clinging  damp. 
O  lady -bird,  lady-bird,  fly  away  home, 

The  sweet  little  fairy  bells  tinkle  afar; 
Make  haste,  or»  they'll  catch  you  and  harness  j'ou  fast 

With  a  gossamer  cobweb  to  Oberon's  car." 

As  she  ended  her  sono;  the  little  creature,  that  had  been 
for  a  while  so  motionless  that  it  scarce  seemed  alive,  suddenly 
expanded  its  hitherto  invisible  wings,  and  flew  away  in  an 
instant. 

"  Ah,  so  I  too  shall  fly  away  some  day,  to  your  great  sur- 
prise," she  said,  turning  to  Edgar;  "I  must  see  something  of 
the  world  before  I  die." 

''  I  hope  you  will  be  well  married  in  a  year  or  two,  sister, 
and  then  I  dare  say  you  will  persuade  your  husband  to  take 
you  a  tour  abroad." 

''  Unless  I  am  married  by  pi'oxy — like  some  of  the  great 
people  we  descend  from — I  do  not  see  the  individual  who  is  to 
have  the  honour  of  my  hand." 

"  My  father  will  look  to  that." 


128  LADY-BIRD. 

"  He  may  look,  but  he  will  not  see.  Besides,  it  is  my 
business — not  his." 

"  I  cannot  admit  that,  Gertrude ;  nothing  concerns  a  father 
more  than  the  marriage  of  his  children,  and  the  alliances  of 
his  family." 

"Of  his  sons,  certainly,"  she  answered,  with  an  affected 
gravity;  "I  would  not  have  you,  my  dear  brother,  swerve  an 
inch  from  that  conviction  or  think  of  choosing  a  wife  for  your- 
self— not  even  if  you  were  to  meet  with  an  angel  from  Heaven 
— if  she  could  not  prove  sixteen  quarterings,  or  had  not  had 
well-attested  grandfathers  on  grandfathers.  I  feel  that  on  you 
will  rest  all  the  responsibility  of  the  family  greatness,  and  I  ana 
sure  you  will  not  shrink  from  any  choice  that  will  be  made  for 
you,  be  she  ever  so  ugly,  if  her  ancestors  are  all  right." 

"  I  think  virtue  is  the  first  thing  in  a  wife,  but  next  to  that, 
I  own  that  I  attach  more  importance  to  family  descent  than  to 
personal  beauty." 

"0  my  dear  Edgar,  how  absurd  you  are!  Do  not  be 
angry."  But  there  was  no  occasion  for  this  appeal,  for  Edgar 
had  the  best  of  tempers,  and  the  happiest  conviction  that  he 
was  always  right;  so  that  nothing  ever  ruffled  or  disturbed 
him. 

After  a  ride  of  some  length,  and  mounting  awhile,  they 
arrived  at  a  wooden  eminence  near  the  downs,  which  com- 
manded a  magnificent  view.  The  stream,  which  had  been 
compressed  within  its  banks  in  the  narrow  valley,  expanded 
into  a  river  in  the  plain ;  the  hills,  overhung  with  wood,  threw 
broad  shadows  on  the  wavino-  corn-fields.     The  declinin<r  sun 

.....  ^ 

gilded  the  rich  foliage  with  its  evening  light,  and  odours  rose 
in  balmy  sweetness  from  the  clover  on  the  one  side,  and  the 
wild  thyme  on  the  other.  Edgar,  who  always  was  more  intent 
on  little  matters  of  detail  than  on  the  general  beauty  of  a 
scene,  and  whose  favourite  pursuit  just  then  was  entomology, 
espied  a  singular  insect  flying  under  some  trees  a  little  way 
beneath  them.  He  got  off  his  horse,  and,  tying  the  bridle  to 
a  tree,  ran  after  it  amongst  the  bushes  where  he  had  seen  it 
disappear.  Gertrude  sat  negligently  on  her  saddle  in  delighted 
contemplation  of  the  scene  before  her.  She  let  the  reins  hang 
on  her  horse's  neck,  and  allowed  him  to  crop  the  short  grass  at 
bis  feet. 

At  that  moment  a  aun  went  off  in  a  ueiahbourinG:  field. 
utartling  a  covey  of  partridges,  and  frightening  both  the  horses, 
which  set  off  at  full  gallop.      Edgar's  broke  away  from  tha 


LADY-niUD.  129 

bush  where  it  was  loosely  fastened,  and  rnslicd  past  the  spot 
where  he  was  still  fooking  for  liis  insect  He  ran  after  it  down 
the  hill,  and  it  was  some  time  before  he  caught  it.  When  be 
returned  to  the  spot  where  he  had  left  Gertrude  she  had  disap- 
peared. He  called  to  her  as  loudly  as  he  could,  but  no  an- 
swer came.  Then  pushing  on  his  horse,  he  looked  about  the 
downs  in  every  direction  and  could  not  see  her.  In  serious 
alarm  he  rode  on,  but  unfortunately  in  the  opposite  direction 
to  that  which  her  horse  had  taken.  It  had  started  off  at  the 
same  moment  as  his;  she  kept  her  seat  and  seized  the  reins, 
but  beginning  to  pull  at  its  mouth  with  all  her  niight,  it  stuck 
its  head  down,  and  got  entirely  beyond  her  control.  She  was 
soon  out  of  sight  of  the  spot  from  whence  she  had  started,  and 
began  to  feel  sick  and  giddy  with  the  pace  at  whicli  they  were 
going.  She  felt  herself  rushing  up  and  down  hill,  and  over 
some  ditches  and  through  some  fences,  and  then  across  a  road, 
and  again  for  what  appeared  to  her  an  interminable  time  along 
the  open  downs,  and  at  last  through  a  gate  iiito  wliat  seemed 
to  be  a  park  ;  there  the  horse  came  suddenly  to  a  stop  :  this 
threw  her  ofl"  her  balance  and  she  fell  on  the  grass.  It  was 
soft  and  s)ie  would  not  have  been  much  hurt  if  her  foot  had 
not  been  under  her,  and  in  this  way  severely  sprained  her 
ankle.  She  felt  a  little  stunned,  but  endeavoured  to  get  up 
and  to  walk  a^ew  steps,  but  pain  compelled  her  to  sit  down 
again,  with  her  back  against  a  hay-stack,  which  she  now  saw 
was  the  obstacle  that  had  checked  the  speed  of  her  horse. 

It  was  getting  late,  and  the  night  was  waning  fast ;  she 
could  discern  nothing  but  trees,  and  heard  no  sounds  but  the 
cawing  of  rooks.  All  sorts  of  ideas  began  to  pass  through  her 
mind, — if  nobody  passed  that  way  what  would  become  of  her 
that  night  1  Once  more  she  tried  to  walk,  but  now  she  could  not 
even  put  her  foot  to  the  ground.  Then  she  called  out  as  loud  as 
she  could,  and  the  rooks  seemed  to  caw  louder  in  answer,  but 
nothing  else  responded.  Then  something  rattled  in  the  hedge 
behind  her,  and  she  held  in  her  breath  with  affright.  Her  foot 
began  to  swell  very  much,  and  she  grew  faint  with  the  pain. 
By  degrees  her  thoughts  became  less  clear,  and  almost  as- 
sumed the  character  of  dreams;  but  still  they  turned  upon  her 
present  position,  and  the  vague  fears  it  inspired. 

Would  she  die  if  she  remained  there  all  the  night  ?  It 
was  a  summer  evening,  and  the  sky  over  her  head  was  clear, 
and  the  stars  beginning  to  shine  one  by  one  ;  but  the  air  felt 
very  cold,  and   the  grass  was  damp.     If  she   should  have  a 

9 


1 30  LADY-BIRD. 

dangerous  illness,  would  her  father  grieve  /or  her,  and  would 
her  mother  have  strength  to  come  to  her  bedside,  and  give 
her  a  kiss  as  she  used  to  do  when  she  was  a  little  child? 
Would  Father  Liflford  weep  if  her  life  were  despaired  of,  or 
was  he  a  man  who  never  shed  tears?  She  kept  asking  herself 
these  questions  over  and  over  again,  and  fancying  how  every- 
body would  look  and  what  they  would  say  at  Lifford  Grange, 
if  she  ivcre  brought  back  dead.  How  strange  it  would  be ! 
The  chapel  would  be  huijg  with  black,  and  candles  would  be 
lit  on  the  altar,  and  the  "  De  profundis "  would  be  sung. 
Then  she  mechanically  repeated  over  and' over  again, 

"  Eternal  rest  give  unto  her,  0  Lord, 
And  let  perpetual  light  shine  upon  her, 
May  she  rest  in  peace  ! " 

Then  she  ceased  to  think,  but  dreamed  that  she  was  in  her 
coffin,  and  that  it  was  being  slowly  lifted  up  and  carried  along 
Was  she  going  to  Heaven  ?  No,  it  could  not  be  Heaven,  for 
she  was  so  sensible  of  suffering  great  pain.  It  was  purga- 
tory, perhaps.  Then  everything  grew  indistinct  and  confused, 
and  a  sense  of  repose  stole  over  her.  But  she  could  not 
move  nor  speak. 

Then  she  heard  the  sound  of  voices  and  of  footsteps 
about  her,  and  she  felt  herself  talking  at  random,  and  heard 
some  one  say  that  she  was  light-headed.  Then  later  some- 
body came  in  and  felt  her  pulse  and  her  forehead,  and  a  glass 
was  held  to  her  lips.  Some  hours  afterwards  she  awoke,  and 
looked  about  her  with  astonishment.  She  saw  nothing  but 
snowy  white  muslin  curtains,  and  opposite  to  her  a  marble 
chimney-piece,  and  upon  it  a  transparent  night-lamp,  with  a 
kneeling  figure  of  a  woman  in  a  church,  the  light  shining 
through  the  mimic  Gothic  windows.  Her  feverish  hands  were 
resting  on  a  pink  silk  eiderdown  quilt,  and  her  flushed  cheek 
on  a  pillow  fringed  with  lace.  She  saw  all  this,  but  felt  too 
weak  to  wonder  at  it,  and  closed  her  eyes  and  went  to  sleep 
again.  The  next  time  she  opened  them  daylight  was  shining 
through  the  chinks  of  the  shutters.  She  heard  some  one 
talking  in  the  next  room,  and  supposed  she  was  still  dream- 
ing ;  but  soon  the  speaker  came  in,  a  pretty,  well-dressed  per- 
son, and  bending  over  her  she  said,  "  Do  not  be  frightened. 
Miss  Lifford,  at  finding  yourself  in  a  strange  place.  This  is 
Mr.  and  Lady  Clara  Audley's  house.  You  were  brought  here 
last  night  after  your  fall  from  your  horse.     For  some  time 


LADT-BIRD.  131 

wc  did  not  know  wlio  you  were  ;  but  the  doctor,  when  he 
came,  recognised  you  immediately.  A  message  was  sent  to 
your  parents  to  let  them  know  that  you  were  safe,  and  Lady 
Clara  is  anxious  that  you  should  f'e(>l  yourself  quite  comfort- 
able. 1  am  her  maid,  jMiss  Lifiord.  I  hope  you  find  your- 
self pretty  well  this  morning." 

'•  Yes,  thank  you,"  Gertrude  answered,  and  without  quite 
knowing  why,  could  scarcely  keep  the  tears  from  rolling  down 
her  cheeks.  "  How  came  I  here?"  she  asked  with  a  bewil- 
dered expression.  '■  What  happened  to  me  last  night  ?  You 
said  I  fell  from  my  horse.  Where  was  I  found  ?  I  was 
stunned,  I  suppose  ?  " 

''  You  were  found  lying  near  a  haystack  in  the  park,  Miss 
Lifford  ;  you  had  fainted  right  away,  and  one  of  the  gentle- 
men carried  you  here;  it  was  some  time  before  you  came  to 
yourself" 

"  I  scarcely  feel  even  now,  as  if  I  had,"  she  ejaculated. 
"  Everything  seems  so  strange.  Will  you  thank  Lady  Clara 
for  her  kindness  ?  I  suppose  somebody  will  soon  come  from 
my  home." 

There  was  a  nervous  sensation  in  her  throat  as  she  said 
those  last  words.  She  felt  very  lonely,  and  partly  from  phys- 
ical weakness,  partly  from  the  strangeness  of  her  position,  she 
found  it  difficult  not  to  give  way  to  her  emotion. 

When  the  nuiid  left  the  room  she  cla.«:ped  her  hands  to- 
gether, and  hiding  her  face  in  the  pillow,  murmured,  "  Nobody 
loves  me — nobody  cares  for  me — I  might  have  died  last 
night,  and  nobody  would  have  been  sorry  excejit  poor  mamma." 
Such  were  her  thoughts,  not  very  logical  or  reasonable  ones, 
certainly,  but  springing  nevertheless  from  a  sense  that  she 
had  never  been  watched  over  or  cherished  in  her  home ;  and 
how  often  it  happens  that  in  illness  or  loneliness  the  long 
kept-down  emotion,  the  long  standing  heart-ache,  the  sense  of 
ail  injury  long  forgiven  and  all  but  forgotten,  will  sometimes 
start  up  with  all  the  vehemence  of  former  days,  and  the  trifle 
as  light  as  air — which  at  other  moments  might  only  have 
excited  a  smile — will  in  those  hours  of  weakness  call  forth  a 
burst  of  feeling  wliich  shakes  to  pieces  the  barrier  with  which 
the  soul  had  fenced  itself  round,  and  imprisoned  till  it  had 
subdued  its  own  impetuosity.  Sometimes  that  calmness  is 
the  result  of  heroic  virtue,  sometimes  of  the  force  of  habit- 
ual endurance,  and  sometimes  again  of  an  odd  sort  of  levity, 
a  recklessness  of  the  same   nature  as  that  which  will  make 


182  LADY-BIRD. 

some  children  (boys  especially)  utterly  hee  lleRS  jf  physical 
pain,  and  will  let  them  play  and  exert  thewseh  es  as  usual 
with  a  dislocated  limb  or  a  festering  wound  ,  'n  a.  y  of  these 
cases  momentary  reactions  may  take  place,  but  the  jffects  will 
often  be  diiferent.  Through  them  the  spirit  may  descend  a 
step  towards  evil,  or  it  may  but  grasp  more  firmh  the  hand 
held  out  to  it  from  heaven. 

The  next  time  that  Mrs.  Martin,  the  good-natur*  d  ladies' 
maid,  came  in,  it  was  to  bring  Gertrude  her  breakfast,  served 
in  beautiful  Sevres  china,  on  a  small  silver  tray.  She  opened 
the  shutters,  to  let  light  into  the  room.  Gertrude  asked  her 
to  throw  open  the  window  also  ;  and,  rising  in  bed,  she  looked 
upon  such  an  enchanting  scene  as  had  never  yet  met  her  sight. 
The  place  was  one  well  known  to  her  by  name,  for  it  was  fa- 
mous for  its  natural  beauties,  and  for  all  that  art  had  done 
for  it.  The  house  stood  in  a  commanding  position  on  the 
brow  of  a  hill,  backed  by  a  magnificent  bank  of  wood,  and 
from  it  the  eye  rested  on  a  succession  of  terraces,  each  form- 
ing a  gorgeous  flower-garden,  now  in  all  the  glory  of  summer 
just  verging  upon  autumn.  Large,  dazzling  masses  of  the 
scarlet  geranium  faced  the  deep  blue  beds  of  the  salvia  or  the 
gentian.  The  heliotrope  and  the  variegated  verbenas,  the 
stately  hollyhocks  and  the  graceful  fuchsias,  the  dahlias  like 
court  beauties  in  their  pompous  array,  the  tall  white  lilies, 
standing  alone  in  their  majestic  purity,  were  all  there  in  clus- 
ters, or  in  rows.  The  passion  flower,  the  jessamine,  and  the 
convolvulus  covered  the  walls,  which  stretched  from  one  end 
of  each  terrace  to  the  other.  Red  roses  in  marble  vases 
adorned  every  flight  of  steps,  and  in  the  centre  of  each  divi- 
sion of  this  flowery  mosaic,  on  every  story  of  this  sloping  gar- 
den, a  fountain  played,  which  high  and  clear  into  the  morning 
air  shot  up  sheets  of  pure  water,  or  clouds  of  glittering  spray, 
through  which  the  sun  shed  its  rays  on  this  scene  of  enchant- 
ment. 

The  last  of  these  terraces  overhung  the  river  Leigh,  which, 
broadening  into  a  lake  at  this  period  of  its  course,  reflected 
on  that  morning  the  azure  of  a  cloudless  sky,  and  then  imme- 
diately narrowed  again,  as  if  on  purpose  to  show  off  its  silvery 
windings  through  the  green  valley  of  Arkleigh.  A  little  skiff 
was  lying  at  anchor,  near  the  stone  steps  of  the  landing-place, 
its  white  sail  gleaming  in  the  sunlight,  and  its  streamers  gen- 
tly fluttering  in  the  breeze.  The  banks  of  wood,  which  reached 
to  the  edge  of  the  water,  on  the  other  side  of  the  stream,  were 


LADY-BIRD.  133 

just  beginning  to  displtry  their  rich  autumnal  hues.  The  foli- 
age of  the  copper  beech,  the  coral  berries  of  the  mountain  ash, 
and  the  red  leaves  of  the  Virginian  creeper,  stood  out  in  con- 
trast witli  the  niai-ses  of  summer's  richest  green.  There  was 
a  brightness,  a  brilliancy,  a  gaiety  in  this  view  which  no  de- 
scription can  convey  Tlie  statues  placed  amongst  the  flow- 
ers, or  presiding  over  the  fountains,  were  all  in  some  graceful 
or  joyous  attitude.  Either  they  seemed  to  play  with  the  large 
leaves  of  the  lotus,  or  to  throw  up  into  the  air,  in  mimic  sport, 
the  water  that  fell  back  in  sparkling  showers  on  their  marble 
shoulders,  or  tlu^y  seemed  to  bow  their  graceful  heads  under 
the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  to  inhale  sweet  odours  from  the  glow- 
ing masses  of  flowers  which  surrounded  them. 

A  part  of  the  park  was  also  visible  from  the  window  : — 
the  deer  starting  from  the  midst  of  the  tall  fern,  the  cattle 
standing  contemplatively  by  the  brink  of  the  river,  the  Gothic 
towers  of  an  old  church  appearing  in  the  distance,  and  the 
blue  hills  of  Westmoreland  forming  a  back-ground  to  the  pic- 
ture. It  was  a  view  not  to  be  weary  of,  and  the  inside  of 
Gertrude's  room  corresponded  with  the  beauty  without.  It 
was  furnished  with  a  magnificence  that  would  hardly  perhaps 
have  been  in  good  taste,  if  there  had  not  been  something  po- 
etical in  its  smallest  details.  Each  piece  of  furniture,  each 
picture,  each  bit  of  carviiig,  the  mirrors,  the  carpet,  the  writ- 
ing-table, the  stools,  the  luxurious  arm  chairs,  the  patterns  of 
the  curtains,  the  mouldings  of  the  cornice,  all  suggested  to  the 
mind  something  pleasing  in  Nature  or  in  art.  Flowers,  birds, 
children's  laughing  faces,  ivy  wreaths  and  clustering  grapes, 
sunny  landscapes  and  graceful  figures,  appeared  at  every  turn, 
and  as  Gertrude  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment  and  thought  of 
Lifi"ord  Grange,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  must  have  dreamed 
of  the  scenes  just  described,  or  else  been  transported  to  one 
of  those  fairy  abodes  which  she  had  so  often  pictured  to  her- 
self in  her  childhood. 

At  that  moment  she  caught  sight  of  a  well  known  figure 
on  a  rough,  stout  pony,  making  its  way  towards  the  house, 
looking  ill  suited  to  the  brilliant  scene  around  him.  but  more 
welcome  to  her  just  then,  than  all  its  beauties  put  together. 
Father  Liff"ord — for  it  was  he — was  looking  paler  than  usual ; 
not  one  glance  did  he  bestow  on  the  fine  scenery  he  was  pass- 
ing tlirougl).  His  black  coat  was  wet  with  the  morning  dew, 
and  his  hair  seemed  more  grey  than  the  day  before.  He  had 
suft'ered  very  much,  from  the  time  when  Edgar  had  returned 


134  LADY-BIRD. 

home  without  his  sister,  and  alarmed  the  house  for  her  safety. 
At  first,  he  did  not  think  so  much  of  an  accident,  as  that  the 
chihl  had  done  something  strange.  He  loved  her  more  than 
he  was  aware  of,  but  had  never  felt  easy  about  her,  and  he  now 
shuddered  as  he  remembered  her  weariness  of  home — her  pin- 
ing for  change — her  strange  questions  and  her  odd  fancies. 

When  her  horse  was  brought  home  late  at  night,  having 
been  found  in  a  field  by  some  labourers,  his  anxiety  grew  in- 
tense, and  he  had  never  found  it  so  difficult  to  be  calm.  Men 
were  sent  to  seek  for  her  in  every  direction,  and  it  was  only 
with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  in  incessant  prayer  before 
the  altar,  that  he  could  command  his  feelings.  When  the 
news  of  her  safety  arrived,  his  only  thought  was  to  go  to  her. 
There  were  reasons  that  made  him  hate  entering  the  walls  of 
Audley  House,  but  they  were  all  swallowed  up  in  the  deter- 
mination to  see  the  child,  and  ascertain  for  himself  that  rihe 
was  not  seriously  hurt  ;  and.  leaving  orders  for  her  maid  to 
follow  him,  he  never  rested  till  he  stood  by  her  bedside. 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  him,  while  the  tears  chased  each 
other  down  her  cheek.  "  A  pretty  business  this,"  he  growitd 
out,  "a  mighty  pretty  business,  to  have  you  laid  up  here  in 
this  new-fangled  place,  with  nothing  and  nobody  that  is  not 
strange  to  us  about  you ; "  and  he  held  her  hand  and  stroked 
it  gently,  while  she  could  hardly  forbear  a  smile  at  his  entire 
want  of  appreciation  of  the  beauty  and  the  comfort  which  were 
apparent  in  the  smallest  details,  as  well  as  in  the  general 
aspect  of  her  present  abode. 

"  And  what  is  to  happen,  child  ?  They  tell  me  that  yoa 
cannot  walk,  and  that  the  doctor  will  not  let  you  be  moved. 
This  is  sad  work  indeed  !" 

"  Lady  Clara  says  that  I  must  stay  here,  and " 

"And  what  business  has  she  to  say  anything  about  it?  " 

"  I  mean  that  she  says  I  may  stay  here,  and  indeed  mjf 
foot  hurts  me  so  much  at  the  least  motion  that  I  do  not  think 
I  could  stir." 

'•  Then  you  shall  not  stir.  Why  do  you  move  about? 
Can't  you  be  quiet?     So  you  must  stay  here,  I  suppose." 

'"  Is  papa  angry  with  me  ?  Was  he  at  all  anxious  last 
night  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  don't  suppose  we  were  any  of  us  very  com- 
fortable, do  you?  " 

'•  Poor  mamma  !  I  thought  of  her,  as  long  as  I  could  think 
of  anything  ' 


LADY-BIRD.  135 

"Well,  there  was  some  grrice  in  that.  But  we  did  not  tell 
her  anything  till  we  knew  where  you  were." 

'•And  Edgar?" 

"  O  the  boy  !  He  cried,  but  he  ate  some  supper."  Ger- 
trude smiled,  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  old  man's  sleeve. 

'•Father  Lifi'ord,  I  believe  you  love  uie.  though  you  never 
say  so." 

"  NoTisensc      I  love  everybody,  it  is  my  duty." 

"Well,  1  don't  think  you  love  Lady  Clara  Audley,"  shff 
maliciously  replied,  for  with  her  needle-like  penetration  sha 
had  long  ago  perceived  that  the  mistress  of  Audley  House  foi 
sonic  unknown  reason  was  his  favourite  aversion.  She  had 
not  indeed  seen  tlicm  together,  Ijut  the  mere  suund  of  her 
name  was  at  any  time  sufficient  to  discompose  him. 

"  L:tdy  Fiddlestick  !  "  he  answered   impatiently,  "  I  wish 

her  well,  but "'  at  that  moment  there  was  a  gentle  knock 

at  the  door. 

"  Here  she  is,  I  am  sure,"  Gertrude  whispered. 

"  Ah  well,  I'll  go  now.  child,  and  come  back  again  another 
time.  Is  there  another  door?"  he  ejaculated  with  a  look  of 
real  distress,  but  while  he  was  desperately  endeavouring  to 
cct  out  at  one  door  and  entanfflinji;  himself  in  the  embroidered 

o  CO 

curtains  of  its  portieres,  the  enemy  entered  through  the  other, 
and  cut  off  his  retreat. 

This  enemy  was  about  thirty-eight,  but  looked  younger — 
at  least  not  many  women  of  thirty-eight  retain  as  much 
beauty — such  a  smooth  fair  skin,  such  glossy  hair,  and  such 
youthful  delicacy  of  feature.  There  was  something  that  re- 
minded one  of  feudal  times  in  her  appearance.  Something 
grave,  dignified,  and  almost  majestic,  though  combined  with  a 
particularly  feminine  grace.  Her  eyes  were  hazel  and  rather 
prominent,  her  hair  auburn,  and  her  lips  somewhat  thick, 
though  not  too  much  so  fur  beauty.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
black  velvet  gown  with  wide  hanging  sleeves,  a  guipure  shawl 
hung  over  her  shoulders,  and  a  lace  cap  was  fastened  by  tv/o 
diamond  pins  to  the  thick  tresses  of  her  hair.  She  bent  over 
Gertrude,  rapidly  said  some  kind  things  to  her,  and  then 
turning  to  Father  Lifi'ord  bowed  to  him  most  graciously,  and 
murmured  something  about  not  having  met  for  a  long  time. 
He  bowed  in  return,  gravely  and  coldly,  but  with  perfect 
civility ;  for  with  all  his  bluntness  he  was  invariably  well 
bred.  She  then  inquired  after  Gertrude's  parents  in  a  kind 
of  half  compassionate  half  mysterious  tone,  which  seemed  to 


136  LADY-BIRD. 

riTinoy  him,  and  he  answered  the  question  briefly  and  abruptly. 
To  her  expressions  of  delight  at  having  the  opportunity  of 
seeing  Gertrude  in   her  house,  and  her  hopes  that  she  would  I 

remain  till  perfectly  recovered  from  her  accident  '■  that  they 
would  not  deprive  her  of  the  wounded  bird  that  had  nestled  un- 
der her  wing,"  he  responded  as  if  poisoned  honey  had  been 
distilled  into  his  ears,  and  said  that  his  nephew  and  Mrs. 
LifFord  would  doubtless  much  regret  the  trouble  which  their 
daughter's  accident  had  occasioned ;  but  though  the  worda 
were  civil,  there  was  something  so  chilling  and  formal  in  tho 
tone  which  accompanied  them,  that  Lady  Clara,  who  observed 
it,  said  : 

"  Time  often  perpetuates  estrangements  between  those 
who  once  were  friends,  but  I  entreat  you  to  tell  Mr.  Lifford  that 
his  daughter  cannot  be  a  stranger  here,  and  tiiat  if  he  will 
trust  me  with  his  treasure,  1  will  cherish  it  as  I  would  my 
own,  had  Heaven  granted  me  one." 

A  still  graver  and  colder  bow  was  the  Father's  only  reply, 
and  he  withdrew  after  giving  Gertrude  his  blessing  and  pro- 
mising to  send  over  some  things  which  she  wanted  from  home. 

And  now  the  lady  of  tlie  enchanted  castle  and  her  young 
guest  remained  alone  together.  Lady  Clara  fitted  well  that 
abode.  She  had  created  it  chiefly  herself,  and  it  seemed  in 
'Bvery  part  of  it  to  bear  the  impress  of  her  mind  and  tastes. 
She  had  been,  from  the  day  of  her  birth,  "  a  lady  nursed  in 
pomp  and  pleasure  ;  "  but  not  in  vulgar  pomp  or  senseless 
pleasure.  Nature  had  given  her  a  sweet  temper,  a  love  of  the 
beautiful,  and  a  kind  and  noble  spirit.  Education  had  added 
delicacy,  grace,  and  refinement  of  mannei'S.  Nothing  mean 
or  vicious  had  approached  her.  She  had  neither  suifered, 
struggled,  nor  sinned,  as  the  world  considers  it,  and  she  was 
the  citcf  cVoiuvre  of  what  a  happy  disposition,  the  best  kind 
of  worldly  education,  and  earthly  safeguards  from  temptation 
can  effect.  With  a  slight  alteration  she  could  be  well  described 
in  the  words  of  a  living  poet ; 

"She  floated  o'er  life  like  a  noontide  breeze 
Or  cradled  vapour  on  sunny  seas, 
Or  an  exquisite  cloud  in  light  anayed, 
Which  sails  through  the  sky,  and  can  throw  no  shade 
She  cared  for  no  sympathy — living  in  throngs 
Of  her  (iwn  sunny  thoughts  nnd  her  nuitc  inward  songa. 
She  was  chaste  as  the  wJiite  lilvs  dew-beaded  cup. 
Which  bold — because  stainless — to  heaven  looks  up 
Her  mind  was  a  fair  desert  temple  of  beauty, 
Unshaded  by  sorrow,  unhallowed  by  duty." 


LADY-BIRD.  l.lY 

Wlicn  just  passing  from  early  girlhood  into  womanhood, 
beautiful  as  a  poet's  drcain,  as  a  painter's  ideal,  she  had  ap- 
peared to  the  young  owner  of  Lifford  Grange.  lie  saw  hct 
at  a  county  ball ;  he  was  invited  to  meet  her  at  a  neighbour- 
ing country-house,  and  then  to  her  father's  house  ;  he  fell  des- 
perately in  love  with  her.  Tt  was  one  of  those  violent  absorb- 
ing passions  that  make  wild  havoc  in  a  man's  heart.  He  was 
handsome  and  clever  :  she  was  pleased  with  him,  and  without 
hesitation  accepted  him  when  he  proposed  to  her.  Her  pa- 
rents, though  they  disliked  the  marriage,  never  thwarted  tiieir 
idol,  and  all  of  them  went  to  Loudon  together,  and  Lady  Clara 
was  engaged  to  Henry  Lifford.  Isut  jealous,  tyrannical,  and 
proud — he  soon  alienated  from  him  the  inclination  which  the 
beautiful  spoilt  child  had  felt  for  him.  Tiie  outbreaks  of  his 
fierce  passion  disfj^uieted  and  alarmed  her.  Gentle,  refined, 
and  pure,  caring  more  for  the  charm  and  the  sentiment  of  a 
mutual  affection  tlian  for  the  kind  of  love  which  made  him  at 
one  moment  adore  and  at  another  reproach  her,  she  broke  off" 
her  engagement  as  unhesitatingly  as  she  had  entered  into  it, 
and  without  a  struggle  or  a  regret — as  she  would  have  thrown 
aside  a  nosegay  in  which  a  thorn  had  stung  her — she  dismissed 
him  at  once,  and  went  on  her  way  as  free,  as  happy,  and  aa 
calm  us  if  he  had  never  crossed  her  path. 

He  went  almost  mad  with  anger  and  despair :  and  then 
the  pride  which  was  in  him  as  strong  as  life  itself,  enabled 
him  to  subdue  at  once  all  outward  expres.sion  of  love,  or  of 
regret :  but,  like  an  extinguished  volcano,  which  has  consumed 
every  trace  of  vegetation,  and  leaves  behind  it  barren  and  un- 
sightly ruins,  the  flame  thus  suddenly  extinguished  seemed  to 
have  burned  out  of  his  heart  every  trace  of  gentle  feeling  and 
alfection.  He  went  almost  immediately  to  Spain,  and  there 
married  the  beautiful  Angustia,  but  no  sooner  was  the  cere- 
mony performed  than  he  felt  himself  undone  ;  and  the  cold 
admiration — if  even  such  a  term  as  that  be  not  too  strong — or 
rather  the  assent  he  had  given  to  the  general  opinion  of  her 
beauty,  changed  into  a  feeling  of  aversion,  which  he  took  lit- 
tle pains  to  conceal. 

When  they  returned  to  England,  Lady  Clara  had  married 
Mr.  Audley,  the  owner  of  a  large  property  about  twelve  miles 
distant  from  Mr.  Liff"ord's  place,  and  they  generally  stayed 
there  during  a  part  of  the  year.  He  neither  would  see  nor 
appear  to  avoid  her — and  a  total  seclusion  from  the  world  was 
the  alternative  he  chose.     He  would  hardly  ride  out  of  his 


138  LADY-BIRD. 

own  grounds  for  fear  of  meeting  her.  Once  in  the  course  of 
sixteen  years  he  did  so,  and  then  the  deadly  paleness  of  his 
cheek,  and  the  expression  of  his  eyes,  left  it  in  doubt  by  which 
of  the  two  aforesaid  passions  his  spirit  was  swayed.  She,  the 
while,  went  along  the  stream  of  life  with  "  youth  at  the  prow 
and  pleasure  at  the  helm  "  The  person  she  had  married  was 
young,  good-looking  and  amiable.  She  loved  him  enough^ 
and  not  too  much  for  her  happiness — enough  to  make  life 
agreeable  in  his  society,  not  too  much  to  give  her  any  of  the 
heartaches  which  are  almost  invariably  attached  to  an  absorb- 
ing affection. 

It  was  impossible  to  see  her  and  hear  her  talk,  at  times, 
without  feeling  that  there  was  in  her  nature  a  power  of  loving 
which  had  not  been  called  into  full  exercise.  She  had  never 
had  any  children,  and  had  not  felt  the  want  of  them  ;  to  those 
who  surrounded  her  she  stood  almost  in  the  liirht  of  a  child 
herself,  although  her  disposition  was  not  in  reality  childish  ; 
but  she  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  beauty  and  luxury,  of  re- 
finement and  amusement,  which  supplied  the  place  of  the 
graver  cares  and  duties  of  life.  In  the  love  of  Nature  and  of 
art,  in  transient  but  not  contemptible  attempts  at  literary  com- 
position, in  intercourse  with  men  of  genius,  in  the  creation  of 
the  earthly,  intellectual,  and  poetical  paradise  which  surround- 
ed her — she  expended  the  sensibility  and  th?  energy  which 
had  not  been  otherwise  called  into  play.  Study  reading,  and 
society  furnished  her  with  occupation,  and  a  sucf  ession  of  pur 
suits  and  of  fancies — generally  harmless,  and  discarded  as 
soon  as  they  became  wearisome — filled  up  her  time.  Such 
was  Lady  Clara.  Audlry's  existence ;  it  had  transcended  the 
ordinary  course  of  human  prosperity.  That  she  was  a  happy 
person  some  will  not  need  to  be  told,  while  others  may  remain 
in  doubt,  according  to  the  view  they  may  take  or  the  theories 
they  may  have  on  the  subject  of  liappiness.  It  had  been  a 
matter  of  curious  speculation  to  her  to  wonder  over  the  strange 
mode  of  life  which  had  been  adopted  by  her  first  lover  and  hia 
Spanish  wife.  She  sometimes  reflected — now  that  it  was  long 
past,  and  had  become  merely  a  page  in  the  history  of  her 
youth — on  the  sort  of  passion  he  had  felt  for  her  ;  and  though 
she  fervently  rejoiced  at  having  escaped  such  a  marriage,  yet 
she  seldom  looked  on  the  gates  of  Lift'ord  Grange  without  an 
odd  sensation  of  curiosity  and  interest.  It  was  therefore  no 
common  excitement  to  her  when  chance  brought  into  her  house 
Henry  Lifford's  daughter,  of  whose  beauty  she  had  often  hea,rd 
from  Mark  Apley  and  others. 


LADY-BIRD.  13& 

After  a  few  preliminary  sentences  of  thanks  on  the  one 
ai  Jc,  and  kind  answers  on  the  other,  Lady  Clara  looked  fixedly 
at  Gertrude,  and  said:  ''You  are  like  your  father,  I  think, — 
but  I  suppose  you  have  your  mother's  Spanish  eyes." 

"  You  have  seen  him,  then?  " 

"  Years  ago,  when  we  were  both  young." 

"  Was  he  ever  young  1  I  cannot  fancy  him  different  from 
what  I  have  always  known  him  ;  but  I  can  well  imagine  I  may 
be  like  him  :   I  feel  it  sometimes." 

Lady  Clara  laughed.  "  What  an  odd  thing  to  frel." 
Then,  seeing  her  eyes  turned  towards  the  window,  she  said  : 

"  You  seem  to  like  my  garden.  Have  you  a  passion  for 
flowers,  as  I  have  V 

"  For  some,  but  I  hate  others :  a  tiger-lily,  for  instance, 
and  every  sort  of  calceolaria." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,  and  that  it  is  as  foolish  to 
ask  that  general  question  as  those  other  ones — do  you  like 
children,  or  do  you  like  dogs?  Somebody  said  one  might 
just  as  well  say:  'Do  you  like  people?'  What  can  be  more 
different  than  a  pfcony  and  a  rose  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  Gertrude  answered  with  a  slow  smile,  "  except 
some  faces  I  have  seen,  and "  she  hesitated. 

"  What  were  you  going  to  say  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  thinking  of  Mrs.  Apley's  and  of  yours."  Lady 
Clara  laughed,  for  the  comparison  was  very  apposite, 

"  Yes,  you  put  me  in  mind  the  first  instant  I  saw  you  of 
the  moss-rose,  the  fairest  and  most  richly-dressed  of  flowers." 

"  Ah,  you  have  read  the  pretty  German  fable  on  that 
subject  ?  " 

"  Not  in  German,  but  Maurice  Redmond  translated  it  for 
me,  and  set  it  to  music." 

"  What,  my  handsome  young  music-master?  Is  he  a  poet 
also?      Can  you  repeat  to  me  the  English  lines?" 

"  I  hardly  know  if  I  can  remember  them  ;  but  I  think  they 
run  thus : 

'  Weary  of  pleasure, 
And  laden  witli  treasure, 
The  Angel  of  flowers 
Had  wandered  for  hours, 
"When  he  sunk  to  his  rest 
With  his  wings  on  his  breast, 
And  the  rose  of  the  glade 
Lent  her  beautiful  shade 
To  guard  and  to  cover 
The  flower-king's  slumber. 


140  LADY-BIRD. 

When  the  angel  awoke, 

Then  in  rapture  he  spoke : 
"  Thou  queen  of  my  bowei-a, 

Thou  fairest  of  flowers 

What  gift  shall  be  mine, 
'    And  wliat  giierilon  be  tliine  ?  " 
"  In  gi;erd(in  of  clutv 

Bestow  some  new  beauty," 

She  said,  an  1  then  siiiile'.l 

Like  a  mischievous  cliild. 

In  anger  he  started, 

But  ere  he  departed, 

To  rebuke  the  vain  flower 

In  the  pride  of  her  power, 

He  flung  some  rude  moss 

Her  fair  bosom  across; 

But  her  new  robes  of  green 

So  became  the  fair  queen, 

That  the  Angel  of  flowers 

Mistrusted  his  powers. 

And  was  heard  to  declare 

He  had  granted  her  prayer.' "  * 

'•  I  should  like  to  have  a  statue  made  on  that  subject," 
Lady  Clara  observed  "  The  angel  of  flowers  hurling  the  moss 
at  the  vain  rose  ;  and  then,  we  might  place  it  in  the  centre  of 
a  bower  of  pink  and  white  moss  roses ; — Would  it  not  be 
charming?  I  will  not  ask  you  if  you  like  statues,  for  I  sup- 
pose you  have  not  seen  many  yet,  but  I  feel  sure  that  j^ou  like 
everything  beautiful  and  poetical,  or  else  your  eyes  belie  you. 
Tell  me.  is  it  true  that  you  are  called  Lady-Bird  in  the  viUage 
of  Stonehouseleigh  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;   I  believe  I  am  well  known  there  by  tliat  name." 

'•  0  then  it  is  so  ;  I  was  once  waiting  in  the  ponychaise,  at 
the  door  of  a  cottage,  and  some  little  brat  called  out — '  there 
goes  Lady-B:«rd.'  I  called  him,  and  asked  wh.o  he  meant  ;  he 
would  only  repeat '  Lady-Bird' — then  his  mother  came  forward, 
and  said  he  meant  Miss  Liflford.  I  was  so  provoked  at  nothav 
ing  seen  you,  for  I  had  long  wished  to  do  so.  But  that  name 
takes  ni}'  fancy  strangely  There  is  something  old-fashioned 
in  it,  and  I  like  everything  quaint  and  original, — old  books, 
old  names,  old  curtains,  and  old  houses.  The  present  is  so  dull, 
compared  with  the  past." 

Gertrude  looked  round  the  room,  then  pointed  to  the  win. 
dow  and  said,  '"  If  Audley  Park  is  the  ]veMnt  and  Lifford 
Grange  ihc  past ^  I  cannot  agree  with  you.  Lady  Clara." 

*  From  the  German  of  Krutnniaeher. 


LADY-BIRD.  141 

TLe  latter  smiled  at  the  unconscious  allusion  contained  in 
Gertrude's  words,  and  said,  "  I  have  erected  this  place  myself, 
schemed,  planned  it,  and  seen  it  rise  before  my  eyes.  It  lias 
been  like  writing  a  poem,  but  now  that  it  is  finished  it  wearies 
me  to  be  always  reading  it  over  again." 

"'  I  should  like  one  day  to  hold  such  a  pen  as  that  in  my 
hand,  but  to  read  your  poem  is  for  the  present  enough  pleasure. 
Speaking  to  a  stranger  is  an  event  in  my  life." 

"  And  yet  you  to  me  are  not  shy,  my  pretty   Lady-Bird." 

"  I  have  no  idea  how  to  converse.  I  wonder  that  I  learnt 
to  talk  at  all." 

"  I  imagine  that  that  talent  is  intuitive,  my  love,  and  that 
the  less  art  there  is  in  it  the  better." 

'•  Do  you  think  I  am  artless^  Lady  Clara?  " 

"  Why  I  can  hardly  judge  of  that  yet.  The  perfection  of 
art  is  to  appear  not  to  have  any." 

"  0  then  I  tliink  you  must  be  very  artful." 

"  A  compliment,  Lady-Bird  !  " 

"  0  no  ;  I  talk  of  you  just  as  I  would  of  the  flowers  in  the 
garden.  I  say  what  comes  into  my  head,  and  if  it  is  flattering, 
it  is  more  fortunate  for  me  than  for  you." 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  amuse  me  very  much.  I  hope 
they  will  let  you  stay  with  me  some  time.  I  could  not  gather 
anything  from  Father  Liff'ord's  manner  ;  does  he  always  seem 
so  stern  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  given  to  the  smiling  mood,  certainly ;  but  I 
cannot  disguise  from  you,  Lady  Clara,  that  he  looks  less  be- 
nignantly  upon  you  than  on  the  rest  of  man  or  womankind. 
Did  you  know  him  in  his  youth  also  1 " 

"  My  dear  child,  he  must  have  been  near  forty  when  I  was 
born  ! " 

''  Then  why  does  he  look  as  black  as  thunder  when  you  aro 
mentioned  1     What  can  you  have  done  to  him  1  " 

Lady  Clara  looked  pensive  an  instant,  then  said,  "  If  we 
can  but  keep  you  here,  your  convalescence  will  be  the  pleasant- 
est  thing  in  the  world.  We  shall  carry  you  gently  down  stairs, 
and  make  you  lie  on  the  sofa  in  the  conservatory,  amongst 
the  camellias  and  orange-trees ;  then  you  shall  drive  slowly 
through  the  rosery  in  a  garden-chair,  and  a  little  later  sail  on 
the  river  in  our  little  skifi",  and  everybody  here  shall  pay  you 
their  court.  There  are  numbers  of  people  in  the  house  long- 
ing to  see  you:  my  cousin,  Lady  Roslyn,  all  the  Apleys,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Crofton,  and  Adi-ien  d'Arberg, — and  Maurice,  as  you 
call  our  young  musician,  is  coming  on  Thursday." 


142  LADY-BIRD. 

"  Is  M.  d' Arberg  here  ?  "  Gertrude  asked,  with  a  look  of 
sudden  interest,  which  did  not  escape  Lady  Clara's  attention 
"  Yes.     Are  you  acquainted  with  him  ?  " 

"  I  can  hardly  say  I  am  ;  and  yet,  I  feel  to  know  him  well, 
for  I  have  read  his  books  " 

'•'I  think  you  will  be  as  much  struck  with  his  appearance 
as  with  his  writings.  I  have  met  with  but  few  men  as  hand- 
some, and  with  none  who  possessed  the  same  charm  of  counte- 
nance and  manner." 

"  I  have  seen  him  once,"  Gertrude  quietly  remarked,  and 
then  changed  the  conversation  by  asking  some  questions  about 
a  view  of  Tivoli,  which  hung  over  the  chimney. 

It  was  enough  for  her  to  hear  that  she  would  see  him 
again.  She  was  secreting  that  happiness  in  her  heart,  and 
did  not  feel  inclined  to  talk  about  it  then.  Lady  Clara  explain- 
ed the  position  of  the  waterfalls,  and  said,  as  she  rose  to  go, 

"  To-day,  the  doctor  enjoins  perfect  repose  ;  nothing  but 
short  dull  visits  from  me,  but  to-morrow,  I  trust,  his  rigour 
will  be  abated  ;  and  that  my  Lady-Bird's  receptions  will  com- 
mence. Somebody  said  that  an  invalid  to  visit  was  an  indis- 
pensable addition  to  the  enjoyment  of  a  party  in  a  country- 
house.  Imagine  what  a  resource  you  will  be  to  my  guests, 
who  having  been  here  a  week,  were  actually  beginning  to  talk 
of  charades  and  tableaux,  and  worst  of  all,  of  jeux  (fes^irit ;  " 
and  with  a  kiss.  Lady  Clara  took  leave  of  Gertrude  for  the 
moment. 

She  remained  with  her  cheek  on  tlie  embroidered  pillow, 
her  eyes  sparkling  with  excitement,  her  hands  playing  with 
her  rings,  and  only  one  fear  standing  between  her  and  the 
rapture  of  anticipation  that  was  beating  in  her  heart.  She 
had  misgivings  that  her  father  would  at  almost  any  risk  order 
her  home,  as  soon  as  she  could  leave  her  bed  ;  and  had  she 
known  his  feelings  about  Audley  Park  and  its  mistress,  she 
might  have  feared  it  still  more.  She  saw  herself  carried  away 
from  this  scene  of  enchantment,  and  now  of  deep  interest,  re- 
stored to  the  dull  room  which  she  had  so  often  wished  to  leave, 
and  which  no  agreeable  associations  endeared  to  her.  It  was 
an  alternative  between  so  much  enjoyment,  and  so  much  dis- 
appointment that  she  could  hardly  remain  quiet  in  that  state 
of  suspense,  and  would  have  probably  grown  very  feverish  in 
the  course  of  the  day,  if  her  maid  had  not  arrived  with  the 
things  she  had  sent  for,  and  news  from  home. 

It  appeared  that  by  that  morning's  post  there  had  arrived 


LADY-BIRD.  143 

some  intelligence  from  Spain  which  imperatively  called  for 
Mr.  Lifford's  jjresence  there  to  assert  his  wife's  right  to  an  in- 
heritance whicli  had  unexpectedly  devolved  on  her.  He  had 
made  instant  preparations  for  departure,  and  was  to  set  off  in 
the  evening,  and  to  take  Pidgar  with  him. 

"And  wliat  did  lie  say  about  nie,  Jane?  Did  you  hear 
anything  from  mamma,  or  Father  Liflford  ?  " 

"  Only  Isabella  told  me  while  I  was  packing  up  the  things, 
that  your  mamma  was  surprised  your  papa  had  not  said  one 
word  on  the  subject,  and  that  she  had  not  mentioned  it  to 
him.  But  of  course,  Miss,  you  are  not  to  move  till  the  doctor 
says  you  may.  and  Father  Lifford,  no  doubt,  will  send  the 
carriage  to  fetch  you  when  the  time  comes :  so  you  need  not 
fret  about  it." 

"  I  supjiose  papa  will  be  absent  for  some  time?  " 

"  Two  months,  I  heard  it  said,  at  the  least."  Then  Ger- 
trude was  silent,  and  tolerably  contented.  She  should  proba- 
bly stay  Avhere  she  was  for  a  few  days  at  least,  and  she  did 
not  despair  of  obtaining  her  mother's  permission  to  pay  another 
visit  to  Audley  Park  before  her  father's  return. 

In  the  afternoon  Edgar  came  to  see  her,  and  made  Mr. 
Lifford's  excuses  to  Mr.  Audley,  not  to  Lady  Clara,  for  the 
trouble  that  Gertrude  occasioned  in  his  house,  and  his  apologies 
that  his  own  sudden  departure  for  Spain  prevented  him  from 
calling  to  acknowledge  in  person  their  kindness  to  her.  Mr. 
Audley,  who  had  taken  vei'y  little  cognizance  of  the  whole 
affair,  was  quite  puzzled  to  find  himself  made  so  prominent 
in  it,  but  he  was  very  gracious  and  civil,  and  was  sure  it  was 
a  great  pleasure  to  Lady  Clara,  and  hoped  Miss  Lifford  would 
stay  with  them  as  long  as  possible,  and  all  sorts  of  kind  ex- 
pressions ;  and  then  Edgar  met  his  father  at  the  station,  and 
nothing  passed  between  them  beyond  a  brief  question  whether 
Gertrude  was  going  on  well,  with  the  affirmative  answer. — 
which  was  received  without  comment ;  and  both  were  that 
night  in  London,  and  embarked  the  next  day  for  Spain.  It 
was  Mr.  Lift'ord's  pride  that  had  forced  him  to  a  piece  of 
civility  which  cost  him  a  great  deal,  but  which  he  was  too 
well-bred  to  omit ;  but  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  Gertrude  was 
destined  to  be  a  perpetual  source  of  annoyance,  and  that 
chance  had  now  connected  her  with  the  plague  spot  which  had 
been  so  long  festering  in  his  heart. 

Gertrude  wrote  little  gay  affectionate  notes  to  her  motherj 
in  which  she  spoke  of  her  enjoyment  of  the  change  of  scene 


144  LADY-BIRD. 

wtich  her  accident  had  so  unexpectedly  procured  her^ — of 
Lady  Clara's  great  kindness,  and  wish  to  keep  her  as  long  as 
possible ;  but  she  added  that  as  soon  as  she  could,  she  must 
go  home,  and  show  her  that  she  was  well  again — and  that  in 
the  meantime,  she  would  write  every  day.  With  something 
between  a  smile  and  a  sigh,  Mrs.  Lifford  gave  these  notes  to 
her  uncle,  who  took  snulF,  "  pshawed,"  and  said,  "  Foolish  people 
all  of  you."  Whom  he  exactly  included  in  that  general  con 
demnation  was  not  quite  apparent,  but  Mrs.  Liflford  found 
safety  in  the  number,  and  satisfied  herself  that  at  all  events 
he  did  not  blame  her  more  severely  than  the  rest,  whoever 
they  might  be  whom  he  so  vaguely  designated. 


CHxiPTER  XII. 

"  Whence  and  what  m'p  wo,  to  what  end  ordained  ? 
Wliat  means  the  drama  hy  this  world  sustained? 
Business  or  vain  amusements,  care  or  mirth. 
Divide  the  tVail  inhabitants  ol' earth. 
Is  duty  a  mere  siiort,  or  an  employ? 
Life  an  entrusted  talent,  or  a  toy  ?  " 

COWPEK. 

On  the  third  day  after  Gertrude's  accident,  Lady  Clara  was 
sitting  writing  letters  in  her  morning-room,  which  opened  en 
one  side  on  a  conservatory  which  formed  a  kind  of  drawing- 
room,  and  on  the  other  on  a  library  where  several  of  her 
guests  were  assembled.  The  three  Miss  Apleys  were  sitting 
round  a  table,  one  of  them  occupied  with  some  abstruse  em- 
broidery, another  with  a  design  for  a  flower-garden,  and  the 
third,  Harriet,  alias  Cherry,  with  a  music-book,  into  which  she' 
was  copying  German  waltzes.  Mrs.  Crofton  and  Mrs.  Apley 
were  reading  the  newspapers  near  the  window,  several  men 
were  lounging  about  the  room,  and  the  sound  of  billiard-balls 
in  the  one  beyond  it  indicated  that  others  were  killing  time  in 
a  somewhat  more  active  manner. 

"  Harriet,"   said  Mrs.   Crofton,  "  have  you  been  to  Miss 
Lifford  yet?" 

"  O  yes,  I  went  up  to  her  room  last  night,  after  dinner  ; 
ehe  is  looking  prettier  than  ever." 

"0,  do  you  think  so,   Harriet?"  exclaimed  Fanny,  the 


LADY-BIRD.  145 

next  sister,  "  I  was  disappointed  with  her.     Have  you  never 
observed  that  her  teeth  are  not  quite  even  ?  " 

"  I  never  knew  any  one  like  you,  Fanny,  for  detecting 
faults,"  said  Mark  Aplcy,  who  was  picking  off  the  leaves  of  a 
tall  geranium  that  was  apparently  growing  out  of  the  middle 
of  an  ottoman,  on  which  he  was  stretched  out  nearly  at  full 
length.  "  If  there  is  a  spot,  a  blot,  a  flaw  in  anything,  you 
are  sure  to  pounce  upon  it.  Now,  Cherry  likes  to  admire,  and 
I  think  she  is  right." 

Fanny  put  down  her  pen,  for  she  was  the  copier  of  music , 
and  going  up  to  him,  said  something  in  a  low  voice  which 
made  him  laugh  and  colour,  and  say,  but  not  angrily,  '•  Leave 
me  alone,  don't  spoil  the  button  of  my  coat.  Come  and  look 
at  them  playing  at  billiards." 

"  No,  I  will  not !  your  friend  Adrien  is  conceited  enough 
already,  without  our  going  to  stare  at  him." 

"  0  Miss  Fanny,  it  would  be  lucky  for  you  if  you  had 
but  half  as  little  conceit  in  your  foolish  little  head  as  there  is 
in  his  wise  one." 

"  You  are  so  ciiticlid  with  him." 

"  Don't  use  French  words,  like  Lady  Roslyn — it  is  so 
affected." 

"  You  do  not  call  her  affected,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Why  no,  but  then " 

"  If  she  is  affected,"  Mrs.  Crofton  said,  "  I  think  she  must 
have  been  born  so.  I  have  no  doubt  that  in  the  nursery  she 
cried  out  for  a  tartine  instead  of  for  bread  and  butter,  like 
other  children." 

Mr.  Latimer,  one  of  the  men  who  had  been  reading  beforo 
the  fire-place,  put  down  his  book  and  said,  "  There  are  some 
people  whom  nature  has  provided  with  stilts,  and  they  may  be 
very  charming  in  their  way,  but  it  never  answers  to  provide 
them  for  oneself" 

•'  There,  now,"  Mark  said,  "  don't  you  attempt  to  get  upon 
them,  little  Fanny ;  you  are  a  great  love  in  your  way,  but  in 
no  other  way,  and  certainly  not  in  Lady  Roslyn's,  whom  you 
as  little  resemble  as  your  pretty  Fido,  Lady  Clara's  greyhound. 
Are  you  angry,  little  woman  1 " 

^"  Tout  autre  que  mon  [frere~\  Veut  ('prouve  sin-  Vheure^^ 
phe  answered  with  a  smile.  '•  There  is  a  bit  of  downright 
French ;  you  don't  object  to  that,  do  you  %  And  now,"  she 
added,  in  a  low  voice,  "  let  us  go  to  the  billiard-room,  and 

10 


146  LADY-BIRD, 

learn  grace  from  Mr.  Crofton,  dignity  from  Mr.  Ashton,  and 
every  earthly  perfection  from  M.  Adrien  d'Arberg." 

The  last  person  whom  she  alluded  to  was  standing  near 
the  window  when  they  entered  the  room,  absorbed  at  that 
minute  in  his  own  thoughts,  which  Fanny  somewhat  unreason- 
ably always  ascribed  to  conceit.  Not  to  be  occupied  with 
her  presupposed,  in  her  opinion,  too  great  a  preoccupation  with 
self 

Few  people  would  have  had  a  better  right  to  be  conceited, 
if  advantages  of  every  kind,  of  looks,  of  mind,  and  of  fortune, 
could  justify  such  a  feeling  :  a  regular  beauty  of  features,  such 
as  is  seldom  seen  in  real  life  ;  eyes  which  without  being  very 
large  were  perfectly  shaped,  and  so  shaded  by  thick  eyelashes 
that  they  appeared  dark,  whereas  they  were  blue  ;  so  earnest 
an  expression,  that  it  might  have  been  thought  almost  melan- 
choly, if  serenity  had  not  reigned  in  their  inmost  depths  ;  a 
mixture  of  repose  and  of  mobility  was  a  singular  characteris- 
tic of  that  remarkable  countenance.  He  seemed  as  if  his  own 
rapid  thoughts  were  passing  before  him  in  luminous  array, 
suggesting  every  instant  some  new  train  of  contemplation  to 
an  ever  eager  spirit,  and  an  intellect  that  seemed  almost  to 
spiritualise  his  face.  Many,  like  Fanny  Apley,  were  apt  to 
misunderstand  him,  because  he  was  so  often  absorbed  in  his 
own  meditations  that  the  remarks  of  others  were  unattended 
to,  and  their  attentions  to  himself  unperceived.  His  own 
ideas  were  sometimes  followed  up  by  him  in  a  manner  that 
might  look  like  egotism  to  superficial  observers,  who  did  not 
understand  the  deep  simplicity  of  his  uncommon  character. 
No  one  ever  forgot  himself  so  completely  as  Adrien  d'Arberg 
did.  He  was  profoundly  religious,  and  there  was  in  his  na- 
ture a  tendency  to  mysticism  that  might  have  led  him  to  a  too 
intense  and  metaphysical  contemplation  of  the  God  he  adored, 
if  the  strong  hand  of  the  Catholic  religion  had  not  been  over 
him,  restraining  every  exaggerated  tendency  or  fanciful  bias, 
and  saying  to  a  naturally  ardent  imagination  and  investiga- 
ting understanding,  "  So  far  shalt  thou  go  and  no  farther." 

He  was  by  descent  a  German,  by  birth  and  also  position 
a  Frenchman,  and  had  been  partly  educated  in  England. 
These  circumstances  seemed  all  to  have  contributed  more^r 
less  to  the  formation  of  his  character  and  to  the  tone  of  his 
mind.  He  would  have  been  perhaps  a  dreamer,  had  not  his 
life  been  from  his  earliest  youth  devoted  to  useful  objects,  and 
a  passionate  wish  to  serve  his  fellow-creatures   been  at  once 


LADY-BIRD.  147 

tho  subject  of  Ills  dreams,  and  the  incentive  fo  incessant  la- 
bours towards  that  end.  He  had  something  of  the  insou- 
ciance of  tlie  French  character  ;  but  his  eeal  for  the  honour  of 
God  and  the  happiness  of  men  had  prevented  its  degenerating 
into  levity, — had  given  seriousness  to  his  views  of  life,  and 
importance  in  his  sight  to  his  own  actions,  as  well  as  to  the 
events  that  passed  around  liiin.  It  had  only  left  him  careless 
of  Avorldly  advantages,  which  sat  so  lightly  upon  him  that  at 
times  he  scarcely  seemed  conscious  of  possessing  them.  Hia 
English  education  had  imparted  to  hnn  that  keen  sense  of 
honour  and  that  gentlemanlike  regard  for  truth  which  most 
even  worldly-minded  Englishmen  possess,  or  at  least  appre- 
ciate. Even  in  manner  there  was  something  which  made 
English  people  feel  at  home  with  him.  lie  spoke  our  lan- 
guage with  the  utmost  correctness,  and  a  good  accent ;  it  was 
only  by  its  resembling  a  little  more  the  English  of  books  than 
the  careless  routine  of  common  conversation  that  he  would 
have  been  detected  as  a  foreigner,  or  else  by  his  abruptly 
changing  it  into  French,  if  any  strong  interest  or  emotion  im- 
pelled him  to  the  use  of  his  native  tongue. 

He  was  distantly  coimected  with  the  Apleys.  and  when  a 
boy  had  sometimes  spent  his  liolidays  at  their  house.  Mark 
Apley  and  he  had  thus  been  friends  from  childhood,  and  their 
intimacy  continued  from  habit  rather  than  from  any  congeni- 
ality of  minds  or  of  character.  On  Adrien's  side  there  was 
an  afiectionate  regard  for  one  whose  amiable  qualities,  but 
weak  understanding,  commanded  more  love  than  respect ;  ou 
the  other,  there  was  all  the  reverence  and  admiration  which 
an  inferior  intellect  yields  to  a  superior  one,  when,  as  in  this 
case,  the  acknowledgment  is  unmixed  with  the  slightest  amount 
of  jealousy  or  of  envy. 

'•  Who  is  winning?"  Mark  asked,  as  he  came  into  the  bil- 
liard-room with  liis  sister,  and  joined  Lady  Roslyn,  who  was 
leaning  against  the  corner  of  the  ciiimney.  while  iMr.  Ashton 
stood  on  one  leg  at  the  end  of  the  billiard-table,  with  his  body 
stretched  across  it,  and  his  face  screwed  up  into  a  shape  of 
intense  and  ugly  earnestness,  which  contrasted  with  Adrien's 
easy  attitude. 

'•  0,  d' Arberg  is  beating  me  hollow,  and  it  is  a  great  shame, 
for  I  practised  five  hours  yesterday,  and  took  lessons  all  last 
year  in  London." 

"  Well,  I  am  sure  that  is  more  than  Adrieu  has  done,'' 
Mark  rejoined,  with  a  loud  laugh. 


148  1.ADY-BIRD. 

"  How  do  you  know,"  Adrien  said,  turning  suddenly  round, 
with  a  smile  ;  "  how  do  you  know  that  I  do  not  get  up  before 
breakfast  to  practise  V 

"  To  judge  by  the  books  in  your  room,"  Mark  said,  with 
another  burst  of  laughter,  "  I  should  say  that  you  studied 
canon-law  more  than  such  cannons  as  those." 

"  You  do  not  suppose  that  I  read  all  those  folios,  do 
you  ?  " 

"  Then  why  have  them  on  your  table?"  Fanny  observed. 

'■  To  press  flowers  in,"  he  answered ;  "  or  to  make  people 
think  me  wise.  There,  Mr.  Ashton,  that  is  game,  I  think," 
and,  as  the  red  ball  flew  into  one  pocket,  and  the  white  one 
into  the  other,  he  put  down  his  cue  and  left  the  room. 

"  By  Jove,  I'll  practise  till  dinner-time  !  "  exclaimed  the 
defeated  man,  with  the  energy  of  a  Haydn  determined  to 
learn  counterpoint,  or  an  Austrian  general  returning  to  the 
charge  after  twenty  defeats. 

Adrien  meanwhile  had  joined  Lady  Clara  in  her  morning- 
room.  There  were  some  of  her  guests  who  had  acquired  a 
sort  of  tacit  right  to  invade  it,  and  he  was  amongst  the 
number. 

"  How  is  your  Lady-Bird?"  he  said,  as  he  sat  down  by 
her. 

"  O,  much  better ;  and  she  is  coming  down  this  afternoon, 
so  mind  you  come  in  here  after  luncheon.  I  am  longing  to 
show  her  to  you.  It  is  the  very  prettiest  bird  you  ever  saw ; 
and,  now  that  I  have  caught  her,  I  mean  to  make  an  immense 
deal  of  her  ;  and " 

"  Spoil  her,"  he  suggested. 

"  No,  no  ;  it  will  improve  her  to  see  something  of  us." 

"  Who  are  us  ?  " 

'•  You  and  I,  if  you  will  not  be  ■afl'ronted  at  the  com- 
panionship.    She  is  not  at  all  aware  of  her  own  cleverness." 

"  And  we  are  to  open  her^eyes  to  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly ;  I  am  always  against  keeping  people  in  the 
dark  about  their  own  merits,  as  well  as  about  anything  else. 
Truth,  M.  d'Arberg,  never  does  any  harm." 

"  Why  ;  is  not  there  an  ignorance  which  may  be  not  only 
a  bliss  but  a  blessing  ? — and  is  not  the  one  you  speak  of 
such  ?  To  destroy  it  seems  like  brushing  away  the  bloom  of 
tt  fruit.'" 

"  0,  but  you  must  not  suppose  that  this  charming  Lady 
]}ird  is  all  naivete  and  humility.     She  docs   not  know  how 


LADr-BIRD.  1-^9 

•t  icver  she  is,  but  is  not  without  some  notions  of  her  own 
tf  »ilitics,  and  has  rather  a  restless  wish  to  put  them  to  the 
iust.  And,  for  my  own  part,  I  believe  that  people  are  twenty 
times  more  likely  to  be  really  modest,  who  have  satisfied  them- 
selves and  others  that  they  have  something  to  be  modest 
about,  than  if  they  remain  all  their  lives  beating  about  the 
bush,  instead  of  ascertaining  once  for  all  the  capabilities  of 
their  own  understandings." 

"  There  is  truth  in  that,  perhaps,  but  not  the  whole  truth," 
Adrien  said. 

"  What  is  your  arri&re-jiens('e  ?  "  Lady  Clara  asked.  "  You 
always  have  one,  I  know,  when  you  are  talking  to  me." 

'•  None  about  this  that  I  wish  to  keep  back.  You  havo 
taken  a  great  fancy  to  this  girl,  who  must  be,  by  all  accounts, 
a  very  peculiar  person  ;  and,  if  you  lavish'  praises  upon  her, 
and  turn  her  Bbad,  you  will  be  amusing  yourself  in  a  less  safe 
manner  than  by  writing  pretty  poems  or  inventing  new  conser- 
vatories." 

"  Well,  I  will  confess  to  you  that  she  does  interest  me  as 
a  poem ;  that  she  does  charm  me  as  a  flower.  There  is  an 
inconventionality  about  her  which  is  quite  refreshing,  and  a 
readiness  of  repartee  which  amuses  me  beyond  description. 
Every  new  idea  you  put  before  her.  every  new  subject  you 
start,  seems  to  be  immediately  laid  hold  of,  and  viewed  in  the 
light  of  her  fanciful  imagination.  I  long  to  see  her  in  society, 
mix  prises  with  Mrs.  Crofton,  cross-questioned  by  Edward 
Latimer,  made  love  to  by  Mark  Apley." 

"  Now  I  have  an  arriere-])e?isee — will  you  ask  me  for  if?" 

"  Yes.  if  it  be  not  severe." 

"  Would  it  be  severe  to  say  that  you  are  making  a  play- 
thing of  something  too  valuable  to  be  played  with  1 " 

He  looked  at  her  in  the  earnest,  calm  way  which  was  pe- 
culiar to  him,  and  she  said  quickly,  '•  You  take  things  too 
seriously,  M.  d' Arberg.  I  have  passed  through  life  gathering 
roses,  and  have  found  no  thorns,  and  I  will  teach  my  Lady- 
Bird  to  do  so  too.  1  have  often  talked  to  you  of  her  father. 
She  sometimes  puts  me  in  mind  of  him.  But  if  he  had  been 
half  as  charming  as  she  is,  I  should  not  be  now  the  happy 
person  that  I  am." 

"  Ay,"  said  Adrien,  with  a  smile,  "  did  not  you  then  gather 
a  rose  and  find  a  thorn  ?  " 

"  Ay,  but  I  flung  away  both  the  rose  and  the  thorn." 

*'  No,  I  think  you  gathered  the  rose  and  left  the  thorn  bo- 


150  LADY-BIRD. 

hind.  But  to  return  to  what  we  were  saying  just  now.  It  is 
from  my  own  experience  that  I  dread  even  kind  interferences 
in  what  may  vitally  influence  the  destinies  of  others." 

"  How  so,  M.  d'Arberg?  Are  you  not  the  most  cautious 
of  men  !  " 

"  Not  always.  For  instance,  when  I  took  Maurice  Red- 
mond to  Italy  I  was  giving  myself  the  immense  pleasure  of  an 
cngoitment  acted  upon,  of  seeing  enjoyment  and  apparently 
showing  kindness  ;  but  I  liave  often  felt  since  that  it  would 
have  been  truer  kindness  not  to  have  forced  open  a  bud  which, 
if  destined  to  blow,  would  have  been  more  surely  developed 
by  a  slower  process.  To  resist  good  impulses  is  one  of  the 
most  difficult  lessons  to  learn." 

'•  And  one  I  never  intend  to  learn  ;  I  think  it  quite  suffi- 
cient to  resist  bad  ones,  dear  M.  d'Arberg,  and  to  make  this 
hitherto  imprisoned  Lady-Bird  try  her  wings,  and  enjoy  her 
liberty,  is,  I  am  convinced,  a  good  one.  So  the  moral  of  your 
story  is  lost  upon  me,  especially  as  I  like  you  ten  times  better 
for  having  done  an  imprudent  kind  thing  than  for  all  the  pru- 
dent good  ones  you  have  ever  accomplished.  But  then  you 
will  not  help  me  to  turn  the  pretty  head  I  shall  show  you  after 
luncheon  1  " 

"  No,  but  I  shall  come  and  watch  the  working  of  your 
system." 

After  luncheon  Gertrude  was  carried  down  to  the  drawing- 
room,  and  thence  conveyed  in  a  garden-chair  to  the  conser- 
vatory on  the  other  side  of  the  parterre.  It  was  fitted  up 
also  as  a  drawing-room,  and  Lady  Clara  often  spent  there 
several  hours  of  the  day.  She  placed  her  on  a  couch  in  the 
midst  of  a  kind  of  bower  of  American  shrubs,  through  which 
the  sun  was  shining  and  forming  with  its  rays  a  fanciful  pat- 
tern on  the  tesselatcd  pavement.  The  smell  was  sweet  but 
not  too  powerful,  the  breeze  from  without  gently  shook  the 
blossoms  of  the  pink  azalias  which  now  and  tlien  fell  on  the 
silk  coverlet  which  had  been  thrown  over  her  feet:  on  the 
table  by  her  side  were  poems,  new  novels  French  and  English, 
prints  and  drawings  without  end.  Lady  Clara  sat  opposite  to 
her,  arranging  cut  flowers  in  fanciful  vases  of  Venetian  glass 
and  Bohemian  crystal. 

"  I  have  sent  everybody  out  this  afternoon  in  the  calechc 
and  the  pony-chaise — that  is,  everybody  that  I  did  not  want 
to  join  us  here.  I  shall  only  let  them  see  you  by  degrees, 
Lady-Bird.     My  favourites  shall  be  first  admitted." 


LADY-BIRD.  151 

'•And  who  are  tliey,  Lady  Clara?" 

"  My  cousin,  Ellen  Roslyn,  Adrien  d'Arberg,  and  Mark 
Apley  : — that  is  my  beauty,  my  hero,  and  my  Newfoundland. 
Here  comes  the  last."  And  Mark  rushed  up  to  Gertrude 
with  a  beaming  face,  and  a  thousand  expressions  of  delight  at 
seeing  her  again.  ''I  hope  Harriet  told  you.  Miss  Lifford, 
how  overjoyed  we  were  at  your  accident — I  mean  how  sorry 
we  felt  about  that,  but  how  glad  that  it  brought  you  here." 

'■  It  has  been,  indeed,  a  pleasant  accident  to  me,"  she  said. 
"  Had  my  horse  chosen  to  deposit  me  under  one  of  my  native 
oaks  I  should  have  been  less  obliged  to  him." 

"  I  only  wish  I  had  had  the  luck  to  find  you  that  night, 
Miss  Lifford.  I  should  have  been  frightened  to  death,  but 
still  so  happy." 

"  By  the  way,"  she  said,  "  who  did  find  me  !  How  strange 
it  is  that  I  have  not  yet  asked  the  name  of  the  person  who  dis- 
covered me  that  night." 

"  It  was  Adrien  d'Arberg — lucky  fellow,  and  he  carried 
you  to  the  house.     I  have  done  nothing  but  envy  him  ever 


since." 


Gertrude  remained  silent,  and  opened  a  book  as  if  in  ab- 
sence. "Did  I  not  dream  of  Heaven  that  night?"  she  in- 
wardly ejaculated. 

Then  she  looked  up,  and  the  form  and  the  face  which  for 
nearly  a  whole  year  had  haunted  her  incessantly  were  once 
more  before  her.  It  was  not  exactly  emotion  that  she  expe- 
rienced in  seeing  them  again — her  heart  did  not  beat  quicker, 
and  no  deeper  colour  rose  in  her  cheek.  On  the  contrary  a 
great  calm  seemed  to  come  over  her,  a  sensation  of  indescrib- 
able repose;  it  was  like  a  void  filled  up,  a  hope  accomplished, 
a-  prayer  granted.  "  God  be  praised  !  "  she  said  to  herself, 
and  then  marvelled  at  the  solemnity  of  that  mute  thanks- 
giving. 

''  M.  d'Arberg,  let  me  introduce  you  to  Miss  Lifford." 
That  insignificant  commonplace  sentence,  so  carelessly  pro- 
nounced, and  yet  containing  in  itself  the  germ  of  so  many 
happy  and  so  many  miserable  destinies  ! 

Adrien  bowed  and  said,  "  I  once  impertinently  introduced 
myself  to  Miss  Lifford.     I  hope  she  has  forgiven  it." 

Gertrude  made  some  scarcely  audible  answer,  but  her  eyes 
looked  all  that  such  eyes  as  hers  am  look.  From  that  instant 
a  new  era  in  her  life  began.  What  arose  in  her  mind  waa 
neither  a  hope  nor  a  project  nor  a  design,  but  a  convictiou 


1 52  LADY-BIRD. 

that  there  was  for  her  but  one  destiny,  one  future,  one  possible 
fate.  It  was  to  love  Adrien  d'Arberg,  and  to  walk  this 
world  with  a  spell  on  her  soul,  a  secret  in  her  heart,  which 
might  either  exalt,  transform,  or  annihilate  her,  but  which 
would  never  leave  as  it  had  found  her,  which  must  be  the 
source  or  the  ruin  of  her  happiness. 

This  kind  of  sentiment  is  either  so  deep  and  so  intense 
that  from  its  very  excess  it  commands  respect,  or  else  it  ia 
degrading.  There  is  no  medium.  Gertrude  instinctively  felt 
this,  and  it  was  this  consciousness  that  preserved  her  self- 
respect,  and  gave  her  face  such  a  beautiful  expression  at  that 
moment.  Mark  Apley  said  to  himself,  "If  I  could  think  that 
that  girl  was  in  love  with  me  I  would  propose  to  her  directly." 
Adrien  did  not  seem  to  think  much  of  anything  just  then,  ex- 
cept of  a  print  from  Landseer,  which  he  had  taken  up  and 
was  examining.  She  felt  glad  that  he  did  not  speak  to  her  at 
first,  that  she  had  time  to  get  accustomed  to  his  presence  be- 
fore he  directly  addressed  himself  to  her,  and  she  began  an 
insignificant  conversation  with  Mark  Apley. 

'•  How  well  you  are  working  those  carnations.  Miss  Lif- 
ford  !  They  seem  to  grow  under  your  fingers.  I  wish  men 
could  work.  Don't  you  think  it  would  make  them  much 
pleasanter  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  would,  but  there  are  only  some  men  who 
ought  to  work." 

"  What  sort  of  men  ?  " 

"  Awkward  clumsy  ones.  It  would  never  do  for  a  man  to 
work  well." 

"  Then,"  said  Lady  Clara,  '  they  should  not  work  at  all, 
on  Dr.  Johnson's  principle." 

"  Oh,  but  I  quite  disagree  with  the  old  Doctor." 

"  Do  you  really  ?  "   Mark  exclaimed  with  a  broad  grin. 

"  A  woman,  for  instance,  might  shoot,  if  only  she  did  not 

know  how  to  load  her  gun  and  held  it  as  a  parasol,  and  people 

may  sing  and  act,  but  they  must  take  care  not  to  do  so  as  well 

s  professional  singers  and  actors.     Then,  a  woman  may  know 

Latin,  if  she  does  not  know  it  too  well." 

'•  You  seem  very  much  afraid  of  perfection,"  Adrien  said, 
raising  his  head  with  a  smile. 

'•  Yes,  I  am,"  she  answered,  turning  her  eyes  slowly  upon 
him. 

"  And  I  worship  it,"  Lady  Clara  exclaimed,  "  wherever  I 
Qnd  it." 


LADY-BIRD.  153 

"  And  where  do  you  find  it  ?  "  Adrien  asked. 

"  There,"  she  answered,  as  her  favourite  cousin  appeared 
at  the  door  of  the  conservatory,  and  certainly,  if  not  in  every 
respect,  in  outward  appearance  at  least  she  seemed  quite  right. 

Lady  Roslyn  was  tall  and  beautiful,  and  her  manner,  which 
was  exceedingly  peculiar,  was  in  harmony  with  her  looks.  It 
was  pretty  to  see  her  and  Lady  Clara  together.  They  were 
very  fond  of  each  other,  and  family  likeness  gave  a  kind  of 
resemblance  to  two  faces  and  manners,  which  were  yet  essen- 
tially very  different. 

"  We  were  talking  of  perfection,  Ellen,  and  you  appeared 
at  that  moment — the  living  proof  of  an  assertion  I  have  just 
made." 

"  What  assertion,  I  wonder?"  Lady  Roslyn  said  with  a 
smile,  as  she  sat  down  by  Gertrude,  whose  hand  she  had  aflfeo- 
tionately  pressed. 

"  That  I  adore  it.  There  is  a  riddle  which  your  modesty 
will  not  guess.  But  tell  us,  Ellen,  whether  you  worship  per- 
fection as  I  do,  or  are  as  afraid  of  it  as  this  Lady-Bird  is." 

"  You  must  first  define  what  you  mean  by  perfection, 
Clara." 

"  Ay."  Adrien  said,  looking  up  from  the  prints  he  was  ex- 
amining, "  tliat  is  the  question.  No  two  of  us  would  agree, 
perhaps,  on  that  point.  Our  heroes,  I  suspect,  would  be  as 
various  as  our  notions  of  heroism  "  Gertrude  thought  two 
might  perhaps  agree,  if  one  would  explain  his  own  ideas  on  the 
subject. 

"  Well,  I  am  like  Miss  Lifi"ord,"  Mark  Apley  exclaimed ; 
"  I  am  afraid  of  heroes." 

"  What  is  your  ideal  of  a  hero.  Lady  Clara?"  Gertrude 
asked,  somewhat  timidly,  thus  hoping  that  afterwards  Adrien 
would  describe  his. 

"  Oh,  mine  is  a  polytheism, — a  general  hero-worship ;  I 
have  hundreds  of  favourites  in  every  age  and  clime,  who  would 
have  fought  like  cat  and  dog  had  they  met  upon  earth,  as  their 
works  or  their  histories  meet  on  my  table.  Adrien  would 
consign  to  perdition  some  of  my  idols." 

"  No,  I  will  hope  the  best  for  them  all ;  so  do  not  tell  me 
their  names." 

"  Severely  charitable  !"  she  exclaimed  :  "  0  Mark  Apley, 
who  is  your  hero  ?  " 

"  The  Duke  of  Wellington,  of  course,"  Gertrude  said,  for 
she  already  knew  her  admirer  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  his 


164  LADY-BIUD. 

imagination  would  not  cross  the  sea  in  search  of  one ;  but 
when  he  re-echoed,  '•  Tlic  Duke  of  Welliugtou,  of  course  !"  she 
coloured  violentlj^,  suddenly  remembering  that  Adrien  was  a 
Frenchman,  and  fancying  she  had  shown  a  want  of  tact  in  sug- 
gesting to  Mark  his  choice  of  a  hero.  Adrien  perceived  it, 
and  relieved  her  distress  by  laughing  at  her  about  it.  She 
looked  at  Lady  Clara,  and  said, 

'•  I  often  speak  without  thinking,  perhaps  because  I  have 
so  often  been  obliged  to  think  without  speaking." 

"  That  must  be  very  disagreeable,"  Mark  observed,  "  it 
never  happened  to  me.     Whatever  I  think,  I  always  say." 

"  Your  thoughts,  I  am  afraid,  do  not  soar  very  high,  dear 
Mr.  Apley,"  Lady  Clara  observed  in  too  low  a  voice  for  him 
to  hear. 

"  But  perhaps  they  run  vei-y  straight,  which  may  be  bet- 
ter," Adrien  whispered. 

Mark  was  a  great  favourite  with  his  friends.  He  was  s.o 
spirited,  generous,  and  kind,  and  there  was  an  ingenuousness 
in  his  simplicity  that  made  it  quite  loveable.  Whenever  he 
said  anything  foolish,  they  did  not  say  "  poor  Mark,"  but 
"  dear  Mark."     He  was  too  good  to  be  pitied. 

"  Guess  who  I  expect  to-day,"  Lady  Clara  said,  "  but  not 
apropos  of  heroes ;  by  the  way,  we  have  none  of  us  produced 
ours,  except  Mr.  Apley." 

"  Let  us  leave  them  alone,  then,"  Lady  Roslyn  said,  "  and 
tell  us  who  you  expect." 

"  Sir  William  Marlow,  and  my  brother  Henry." 

"  Oh,  is  Egerton  coming  ?  I  shall  be  delighted  to  see 
him,"  Adrien  exclaimed. 

"  Shall  you  really,  M.  d'Arberg  1  That  pleases  but  sur- 
prises me  ;  of  all  human  beings,  I  should  have  thought  ho 
would  have  suited  you  the  least." 

"  And  why  so.  Lady  Clara  ?  " 

"  You  differ  so  entirely  on  almost  every  subject." 

"  But  sympathy  and  liking  are  quite  separate  things." 

"  And  there  can  be  sympathy  without  agreement." 

"  Of  that  I  am  not  so  sure,  except  in  the  case  of  a  predom- 
inant affection,  which  has  struck  such  profound  roots  in  two 
hearts  originally  cast  by  Nature  in  the  same  mould  that  no- 
thing can  ever  go  deep  enough  to  reach  the  electric  bond  of 
their  union  ;  except  in  such  rare  cases  where  love  is  stronger 
than  death,  or  life  also.  I  can  hardly  allow  that  there  can  be 
much  sympathy  where  hopes,  fears,  wishes,  and  interests  are 


lADY-BIRU.  165 

all  dissimilar.  Do  T  make  you  understand  what  I  mean,  Lady 
Clara  ?  The  aiiectioii  that  creates  sympathy  under  such  cir- 
cumstances is  of  the  highest  and  most  intense  kind  ;  but  short 
of  it,  there  may  be  regard  and  liking,  but  not  sympathy  :  that 
is  at  least  my  view  of  the  subject." 

'•  Then,  do  you  mean,  for  instance,  that  there  is  no  sympa- 
thy between  us  ?  " 

"  Not  the  least,  I  should  say."  She  laughed,  but  did  nol 
seem  quite  pleased. 

"  I  should  have  thought  that  in  our  tastes  and  our  feel- 
ings, our  love  of  beauty  in  Nature  and  in  art,  our  interest  in 
literature,  there  were  sufficient  grounds  of  sympathy." 

"  No,  there  is  matter  for  agreeable  conversation,  for  very 
pleasant  intercourse,  for  great  kindness  on  the  one  side,  and  a 
grateful  and  admiring  regard  on  the  other  ;  but  sympathy, 
dear  Lady  Clara,  does  not  consist  in  reading  the  same  books, 
admiring  the  same  views,  liking  some  of  the  same  occupa- 
tions." 

"  What  does  it  consist  in  then  ?  "  she  asked  somewhat  im- 
patiently. 

"  In  what  would  make  you  understand  at  this  moment  all 
I  dare  not  say  on  the  subject.  In  what  would  make  you  feel 
that  we  might  not  have  one  taste  in  common,  and  yet  the  most 
perfect  sympathy.  But  after  all  I  may  be  quite  wrong  :  as 
in  the  case  of  heroes,  we  may  apply  a  difierent  meanuig  to 
the  same  word." 

"  As  different,"  Gertrude  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  as  when  we 
speak  of  admiring  the  Duke  of  Wellington  or  St.  Vincent  of 
Paul." 

Who  could  have  doubted  what  sympathy  meant  who  saw 
their  eyes  meet  at  that  moment? 

•'  Do  you  and  Henry  dispute  much,  M.  d'Arberg?  " 

"  No  ;  I  believe  we  disagree  too  much  to  dispute." 

"  You  are  afraid  of  quarrelling?  " 

"  No  ;  your  brother  has  an  excellent  temper,  and  I  am  too 
phlegmatic  to  lose  mine  easily,  but  to  argue  one  ought  to  have 
certain  points  of  agreement  to  start  from,  and  that  is  just 
what  we  have  not.  Egcrton  has  no  chance  of  convincing  me, 
or  I  him,  because,  like  Archimedes,  we  can  find  no  world  to 
rest  our  levers  on ;  our  point  d'appui  is  not  the  same,  and  so 
we  cannot  bring  our  argument  to  bear." 

'•  For  my  part,"  Mark  said,  "  I  hate  arguing, — it  is  such 
provoking"  work, — and  especially  with  Lady  Clara,  who  always 
manages  to  be  in  the  right." 


156  LADYBIRD. 

"  Or  to  seem  so,'  Adrien  added,  "  which,  perhaps,  she 
will  think  as  great  a  eotupliment." 

"  It  is  an  equivocal  one,  but  I  will  take  it  in  the  best  sense. 
My  quarrel  with  you,  M.  d'Arberg,  is,  that  you  never  will  let 
one  penetrate  to  the  bottom  of  your  thoughts." 

"  What  is  it  you  wish  to  see  there  ?  '' 

"  Your  opinion  of  me." 

"  Then  it  is  yourself  and  not  me,  that  you  wish  to  get  ac- 
quainted with  ?  " 

"  0  you !  I  despair  of  ever  finding  yoti  out.  I  do  not 
know  if  you  are  the  deepest  of  enthusiasts  or  the  calmest  of 
reasoners,  the  most  enlightened  philosopher  or  the  most  bigot- 
ed Papist." 

"  But  what  if  the  calmest  reasoning  awoke  the  deepest  en- 
thusiasm 1  If  what  you  call  the  most  bigoted,  and  I  call  the 
most  earnest  Popery,  were  to  turn  out  after  all  to  be  the  most 
enlightened  philosophy — as  many  of  the  deep  thinkers  of  our 
age  are  beginning  to  suspect  ?  " 

"  It  would  require  a  miracle  to  convince  me  of  it,  and 
more  than  one  of  your  modern  miracles." 

"  That  is  hard  upon  him,  Clara,"  Lady  Roslyn  said. 
"  You  insist  on  a  miracle,  and  will  not  have  a  modern  one. 
But  the  thinkers  you  were  speaking  of,  M.  d'Arberg ;  they 
may  be  deep,  perhaps,  but  not  free." 

"  And  do  you  like  free  thinkers,  Lady  Roslyn  ?  " 

"  I  like  freedom  of  thought." 

"  And  is  not  that  free  thinking  1 " 

"  You  are  playing  vipon  words.  I  do  not  like  the  free 
thinking  that  ends  in  infidelity." 

"  Then  the  freedom  you  advocate  must  walk  in  leading- 
strings  of  your  own  selecting." 

"  Not  of  my  selecting,  M.  d'Arberg." 

"  Of  whose  choosing  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  if  Ellen  once  begins  an  argument,  we  never  shall 
get  out  of  it  again,"  Lady  Clara  exclaimed,  "  and  it  is  not 
your  religion  but  yourself  I  want  to  understand.  At  times  I 
have  supposed  you  to  be  a  devoted  supporter  of  legitimacy,  a 
chivalrous  admirer  of  the  exploded  theories  of  divine  right 
and  at  others,  almost  found  you  out  to  be  a  thorough-going 
democrat,  with  a  lurking  tenderness  for  Socialist  opinions." 

Adrian  laughed,  and  said,  "  If  you  will  not  use  the  key, 
Lady  Clara,  how  can  you  expect  to  unlock  a  door?" 

"  You  have  never  yet  given  me  the  '  Open  Sesame  into 
the  secret  chambers  of  yoier  opinions." 


LADY-BIRD.  157 

"  Has  she  ever  asked  you  for  it  ?  "  Lady  Roslyn  said, 
with  a  smile,  "  Ccst  ^obstacle  qiCelle  (time — elle  ne  vent  que 
chercher .'''' 

"  You  do  not  know  him  yet,  Ellen  ;  he  has  at  once  the 
most  audacious  and  the  most  humble,  the  most  impetuous  and 
the  most  imperturbable  spirit  imaginable,  and  while  I  am  say- 
ing all  this  to  him  he  sits  looking  at  me  as  if  I  were  neither 
praising  nor  insulting  him." 

"  Because  I  suppose  you  do  not  intend  to  do  either." 

"  I  believe  you  like  to  be  a  riddle,  and  to  baffle  all  my 
penetration.     Is  not  this  trying,  Gertrude?" 

"  To  which  of  you,  Lady  Clara?  " 

"  To  me,  you  most  impertinent  child,"  Lady  Clara  an- 
swered with  a  smile.  "  I  read  his  books,  and  fancy  that 
through  them  I  learn  to  know  him  ;  but  when  I  see  him  again 
he  piizzles  me  afresh.  He  writes  pages  of  the  most  exciting 
eloquence  ;  he  carries  you  on  by  the  might  of  his  enthusiasm 
till  you  almost  lose  your  footing,  and  feel,  at  least,  if  you  do 
not  always  think  with  him  ;  but  when  you  meet  him  face  to  face 
be  changes  his  tactics  and  draws  you  out  instead  of  on,  listens  to 
you  patiently,  hopes  the  best  for  you,  as  he  said  just  now  of 
my  heroes,  but  leaves  you  in  doubt  what  is  the  sentence  passed 
in  the  secret  tribunal  of  his  thoughts." 

"  If  I  thought  you  in  earnest  I  would  defend  myself,  but 
you  must  not  misconsti-ue  my  silence.     I  do  not  plead  guilty." 

"  Gertrude  shall  judge  between  us  in  a  few  days.  If  she 
finds  you  less  impenetrable  than  I  have  done,  I  will  give  in." 

He  smiled  and  said,  '■  But  perhaps  she  will  use  the  key  I 
was  speaking  of"  Again  Gertrude's  eyes  met  his,  but  she 
hastily  turned  hers  away,  for  she  felt  that  they  might  express 
more  than  she  wished. 

_  "  But  it  is  very  provoking,"  Lady  Clara  continued,  "  that 
you  should  be  too  modest  or  too  proud  to  talk  up  to  your 
books." 

He  looked  at  her  with  an  amusingly  imploring  countenance 
and  said,  ''  Dear  Lady  Clara,  I  will  call  on  your  favourite 
phrenologist  the  next  time  I  go  to  Londoii,  and  get  him  to 
write  my  character  for  you  ;  I  will  talk  like  a  book  if  you 
wish  it,  and  hold  forth  every  evening  on  any  subject  you  may 
select,  if  only  you  will  not  discuss  me  any  more." 

At  that  moment  the  sound  of  a  carriage  driving  up  the 
avenue  was  heard,  and  Lady  Clara  exclaimed,  ''  That  must  be 
Henry !  " 


168  LADY-BIRD. 

"  Does  Sir  William  Marlow  come  with  him  ? "  Mark 
inquired. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so  ;  I  hope  they  will  tell  them  we  are 
here." 

"  I  will  let  them  know,"  Adrien  said,  '•  I  am  going  to  the 
house." 

As  he  left  the  conservatory  Gertrude  watched  his  tall 
figure  as  it  disappeared  amongst  the  trees.  Mark  observed  the 
direction  of  her  eyes  and  said,  "  You  had  never  seen  d'Arberg 
before,  had  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  once  at  your  house,  the  day  of  the  breakfast." 
"  Did  you  ever  see  anybody  half  so  handsome  1  " 
"  Half  perhaps,  but  certainly  not  more  than  half" 
"  He  is  a  capital  fellow.     Fanny  says  he  is  conceited,  but 
it  is  not  true,  nobody  thinks  so  little  of  himself.     How  differ- 
ent he  is  from  Sir  William  Marlow." 

Just  then  Lady  Clara's  brother  Mr.  Egerton,  and  the 
identical  Sir  William  Marlow  were  seen  at  a  distance  walking 
from  the  house,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  had  joined  them. 
Mr.  Egerton  was  good  looking  without  being  handsome.  He 
seemed  pleasing  and  intelligent.  His  companion  was  short 
and  slight,  with  delicate  features  and  a  remarkable  forehead. 
His  dark  hair  was  brought  back  in  a  way  that  gave  him  a 
rather  wild  expression.  Mr.  Egerton  had  just  sufficient  shy- 
ness in  his  manner  to  make  apparent  his  friend's  singular 
want  of  it.  In  his  way  of  standing,  sitting,  shaking  hands,  or 
performing  any  of  the  ordinary  actions  of  life,  there  was  the 
stamp  of  a  most  profound  conceit.  His  self-complacency 
hung  about  him  as  a  garment,  or  rather  it  seemed  as  much  his 
natural  attribute  as  the  strut,  the  hop,  or  the  twitter  of  certain 
birds  belongs  to  them.  The  very  sound  of  his  voice  was  con- 
ceited. His  calmness  was  irritating,  the  way  he  crossed  his 
legs  and  caressed  his  foot  exasperating,  and  the  clearness  of 
his  articulation  despairing.  He  united  in  his  own  person  the 
active  and  the  passive  moods  of  vanity.  Soon  after  the  revo- 
lution of  February,  M.  de  Lamartine  declared  that  a  French- 
man's proper  occupation  is  the  contemplation  of  his  own 
magnanimity,  and  at  the  same  time  an  English  journalist  de- 
scribed England  as  sitting  in  unapproacliable  greatness.  Now, 
Sir  William  Marlow  seemed  to  unite  in  himself  both  the 
characteristics  of  these  two  very  different  nations.  From  the 
height  of  his  unapproachable  self-satisftiction,  he  seemed  eter- 
nally to  contemplate  his  own  perfections.     That  he  had  good 


LADY-IJIRD.  150 

t[Ualitics,  that  be  was  clever,  and  that  he  had  a  considcrablo 
lomniand  of  hmguage  could  not  be  denied.  Lady  Clara  liked 
aim,  and  perhaps  she  was  right.  It  certainly  is  not  right  to 
dislike  conceit  as  much  as  people  in  general  do.  It  is  better 
to  be  conceited  than  to  be  vicious  or  cruel,  but  tlie  strut  of  a 
peacock  and  the  impudence  of  a  sparrow  are  often  more  irri- 
tating than  the  fierceness  of  a  vulture  or  a  hawk  ;  it  is  not 
easy  to  be  just  when  we  are  affronted,  and  such  people  as  Sir 
William  are  a  walking  affront  that  our  own  conceit,  however 
kept  in  order,  can  with  difficulty  endure. 

Mr.  Egerton  was  evidently  struck  with  Gertrude's  beauty. 
Sir  William  was  never  struck  with  anything.  For  a  few 
moments  Lady  Clara  kept  up  an  animated  conversation  with 
the  new  comers,  in  whicb  Lady  Koslyn  and  Gertrude  occa- 
sionally joined  ;  and  then,  looking  tired  with  that  kind  of 
fatigue  peculiar  to  those  who  make  society  the  business  of 
their  lives,  she  said  she  must  lie  down  for  an  hour  before  din- 
ner and  proposed  to  go  home.  Mark  Apley  drew  Gertrude  in 
the  garden-chair  across  the  parterre.  Mr.  Egerton  talked  to 
her  as  they  went  along.  Sir  William  gave  his  arm  to  Lady 
Clara,  and  made  clever  an.swers  to  her  brilliant  remarks ;  and 
the  sun  went  down  behind  the  hills,  and  the  dew  was  thick 
upon  the  grass,  the  flowers  gave  out  their  sweetest  odours, — 
the  air  blew  freshly  on  Gertrude's  cheek,  and  an  animated 
sense  of  enjoyment  excited  her  spirits.  Life  appeared  to  her 
under  a  very  different  aspect  than  it  had  ever  presented  before; 
she  thought  it  pleasant  to  be  young  and  pretty,  admired  and 
amufied.  She  felt  as  if  her  tastes  and  inclinations  were  in 
harmony  with  the  refined  beauty  of  the  objects  that  sur- 
rounded her,  while  a  romantic  sentiment  of  admiration  for  one 
well  calculated  to  inspire  it,  imparted  a  meditative  character 
to  her  enjoyment,  which  increased  and  exalted  it. 

When  she  readied  her  room,  she  sat  down  in  a  luxurious 
arm-chair,  before  a  small  wood  fire  that  burned  brightly  in 
the  grate,  and  opened  a  volume  which  she  had  carried  off  from 
the  drawing-room  table.  It  was  the  Life  of  Christina  of 
Sweden,  which  Maurice  had  once  mentioned  to  her.  Adrien's 
name  was  on  the  title  page.  "  I  understand  him,"  she  said 
to  herself,  ''  but  will  he  ever  understand  me  ?  I  dare  not  give 
him  the  key  to  my  inmost  thoughts,  which  he  so  fearlessly 
holds  out  to  me  of  his  own  ;"  and  taking  a  pencil  she  sketched 
in  the  faintest  manner  a  key  on  tlie  blank  page  of  the  book 
before  her,  and  wrote  under  it  these  lines: 


160  LADY-BIRD. 

"  Da  me  posso  nuUo 
,  Con  Dio  posso  tutto. 

A  Dio  ronore 
A  me  il  disprezzo." 


CHAPTER  XIIT. 


"Di  gelosia  mi  moro 
E  non  lo  posso  dire  ! 
Chi  mai  provo  di  quosto, 
Att'anno  piii  fimesto 
Piii  barbaro  dolor." 


Metastasio. 


Maijrice  Redmond  had  been  for  some  time  past  engaged  to 
spend  a  few  weeks  at  Audley  Park.  He  had  given  lessons 
the  year  before  to  Lady  Clara,  or  rather  played  with  her  and 
to  her  ;  and  she  soon  perceived  that  his  education  and  his 
manners  fitted  him  for  any  society,  and  that  he  was  an  addi- 
tion to  hers.  Slie  had  accordingly  invited  him  to  spend  part 
of  the  autumn  with  them  ;  and  as  he  travelled  from  London 
to  Stonehouseleigh,  on  his  way  to  Audley  Park,  he  had  often 
turned  over  in  his  mind  the  probable  chances  of  meeting  Cj-er- 
trude  at  his  mother's  house,  or  in  some  other  chance  manner, 
without  dreaming  that  he  should  soon  find  her  established 
under  the  same  roof  with  himself  It  was  Mary  who  an- 
nounced it  to  him,  soon  after  his  arrival.  He  had  devoted 
two  or  three  days  to  his  hume  and  to  her ;  and  one  of  the  first 
things  he  heard  was  the  account  of  Gertrude's  accident,  of  her 
residence  at  Audley  Park,  and  of  Mr.  LiflFord's  departure  for 
Spain.  He  had  left  London  with  the  firmest  resolution  of 
banishing  from  his  mind  all  vague  hopes  with  regard  to  Ger- 
trude He  had  latterly  wondered  how  such  ideas  could  ever 
have  occurred  to  him  :  it  had,  indeed,  been  but  a  transient 
dream  called  forth  by  her  presence  and  her  unconscious  glan- 
ces, and  dissolved  in  absence  ;  he  had  now  resolved  to  press 
Mary  at  once  to  fix  a  period  for  their  marriage,  and  this  sat- 
isfied his  conscience.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  given  up  some- 
thing, whereas  it  was  only  that  calmer  thoughts  had  shown 
him  the  utter  impossibility  of  another  destiny,  and  what  he 
did  not  give  up  was  the  passion  which  he  still  nourished  in 
the  secrecy  of  his  heart. 


LADY-BIRD.  161 

Mary  tliouglit  liii*-  looking  ill,  and  hoped  the  country  would 
do  him  good.  He  had  worked  hard  in  London,  and  made  a 
little  money.  He  smiled  as  he  told  her  so,  and  asked  her  if 
she  could  begin  housekeeping  on  such  slender  means  as  thej 
could  command.  She  made  an  evasive  answer,  and  looked  al 
him  very  earnestly.  There  was  evidently  something  that  dis- 
quieted her  in  his  appearance  :  "  Why  do  you  look  so  wistfuUj 
at  me,  Mary  ? — Are  you  trying  to  read  something  in  my  eyes  ?" 
She  gave  a  quick  suppressed  sigh,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Then,  Mary,  will  you  agree  to  it?  Shall  we  be  married 
next  spring  ?  "  She  was  silent,  and  seemed  to  be  struggliug 
with  herself. 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  making  me  too  happy  by  such  a  pro- 
mise'?" he  said,  and  putting  his  arm  round  her  waist,  he  tried 
to  look  in  her  face. 

"  Too  happy,"  she  slowly  repeated.  "  No,  my  only  wish  is 
to  make  you  happy. 

"  Then  you  will  consent  to  become  my  wife  1 "  She  looked 
as  pale  as  the  white  roses  of  the  porch  where  they  were  sit- 
ting, but  assented  gently  to  his  proposal,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
left  him  and  went  up  to  her  room. 

There  kneeling  by  the  bedside  she  burst  into  tears.  In  a 
few  minutes  she  got  up  and  bathed  her  eyes  with  cold  water. 
"  His  eyes  must  not  shed  tears,"  she  said  to  herself  '•  Thet/ 
must  not  burn  with  hot  drops  like  these.  0  my  God,  let  him 
not  weep.  Let  me  stand  between  him  and  sorrow — and  never 
in  the  way  of  liis  ha])piness.  But  t//(it  never,  never  could  be 
happiness,  and  I  will  tstand,  so  Heaven  help  me.  between  him 
and  her.  She  shall  not  break  his  heart.  O  these  lilinding 
tears!"  she  exclaimed,  ••how  they  burn  the  eyes."  There 
was  a  strange  anxiety  about  her  as  she  made  these  exclama- 
tions and  walked  quickly  up  and  down  her  room  :  but  when 
she  went  down  stairs  again  she  was  more  cheerful  than  usual, 
and  even  encouraged  him  to  talk  of  future  plans  and  arrange- 
ment.s.  • 

When  under  the  influence  of  her  society,  Maurice  believed 
all  that  he  desired  to  persuade  himself.  There  was  something 
f)0  tender  and  unobtrusive  in  her  manner,  she  was  so  indis- 
pensable to  him  in  various  ways,  he  was  so  accustomed  to  the 
perfume  of  sympathy  and  of  affection  with  which  she  sur- 
rounded him,  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  him  to  call 
what  he  felt  for  her  by  another  name  than  love,  or  to  give  that 
name  to  the  tormenting  and  wayward  emotions  which  he  eX' 

11 


162  LADY-BIRD. 

perienced  in  Gertrude's  presence.  He  would  certainly  have 
been  very  unhappy  that  day  if  Mary  had  refused  to  become 
his  wife.  He  was  satisfied  with  this  consciousness,  and  did 
not  trouble  himself  to  reflect  what  his  feelings  would  have 
been  if,  at  the  moment  she  had  accepted  him,  he  was  suddenly 
to  have  heard  that  Gertrude  was  about  to  marry,  or  that  ho 
was  never  to  see  her  again.  He  asked  himself  no  such  prob- 
ing questions  either  then  or  the  next  day  on  his  way  to  Aud- 
ley  Park,  but  only  mentally  protested,  as  if  to  silence  some 
troublesome  self  suggestions,  that  he  loved  Mary  firmly  and 
truly,  and  that  he  looked  to  her  for  his  future  happiness, — 
that  in  sorrow  or  in  joy,  in  health  or  in  sickness,  she  would  be 
to  hiui  a  shield,  a  comfort,  a  friend  and  a  support, — that  to- 
gether they  had  begun  life,  and  together  they  would  pass 
through  it,  and  together  end  it.  What  injury  was  it  to  her 
if,  as  artists  place  before  them  beaiitiful  pictures  to  inspire 
their  conceptions,  as  others  listen  to  the  most  exciting  music 
they  can  procure,  or  revel  in  the  most  romantic  scenery  they 
can  find,  and  thus  influence  their  imaginations  and  kindle  their 
enthusiasm  ? — why  should  not  Lady-Bird  be  his  picture  to 
gaze  upon — the  muse  from  which  he  should  draw  his  inspira- 
tions— the  "  dame  de  ses  pensees,"  in  the  domain  of  art  and  of 
romance  ?  It  was  his  scruples  that  made  him  untrue  to  Mary — 
Mary  his  gentle  sister  in  his  childhood — now  his  betrothed, 
soon  to  be  his  wife.  That  was  an  earnest  tie,  a  serious  affec- 
tion, beyond  the  nonsense  of  romance,  the  trifling  of  imagina- 
tion. Did  he,  could  he  ever  have  tliought  of  Lady-Bird  as 
his  wife  1  O  no.  she  was  not  made  for  the  common-place  cares 
and  duties  of  life  ;  and  Shakespeare's  often  repeated  lines 
about  ''  a  bright  particular  star  "  came  into  his  head  as  he 
was  riding  up  the  avenue. 

About  ten  days  had  elapsed  since  Gertrude's  first  appear- 
ance in  the  drawing-room  of  Audley  Park.  During  that  in- 
terval the  various  ingredients  of  which  its  society  was  com- 
posed had  been  shaken  together,  and  the  process  of  assimila- 
tion had  begun  to  take  place  People  had  found  out  whom 
they  liked,  or  disliked ;  who  amused  and  who  bored  them  ; 
who  made  useful  butts ;  who  talked  and  who  listened  well ; 
who  was  always  in  a  good  humour,  and  who  could  not  endure 
a  joke ;  at  what  hour  the  library  and  the  newspapers  were 
unoccupied  ;  when  the  Miss  Apleys  got  somebodj'  to  play  and 
sing,  and  talked  all  the  time  themselves,  or  Mr.  Egertou  and 
Mark    Aplcy    argued   about   Protection    and   Free-trade,  or 


LADY-BIRD.  163 

General  Burnwood  gave,  "  in  a  few  words,"  the  history  of  hia 
campaigns.  Some  friendships  were  dawning,  some  flirtations 
I'udding,  some  aversions  growing  up, — silent  ones  which  were 
the  deepest,  buvSy  ones  which  were  tiresome,  quarrelsome  ones 
which  were  amusing.  Lady  Clara  was  the  perfection  of  an 
hostess ;  she  paid  enough  attention  to  her  guests  to  make 
them  feel  quite  at  home,  and  not  too  much  to  infringe  on  the 
3harm  of  complete  independence.  She  left  well  alone  :  never 
insisted  on  those  who  seemed  happy  in  one  way  that  they 
should  amuse  themselves  in  another,  but  if  the  most  insigni- 
ficant person  in  the  society  looked  bored  or  neglected,  she 
found  them  some  occupation  or  amusement.  She  adapted 
herself  in  turn  to  every  one ;  not  so  much  out  of  amiability, 
though  she  was  amiable,  but  from  a  wish  to  see  none  but 
happy  faces  about  her,  and  a  dislike  to  sad  ones.  "  Life,"  she 
said  one  day,  "was  too  short  for  gloom."  "  True,"  Adrien 
answered.     They  agreed,  but  did  not  sympathise. 

Lady  Roslyn  showed  her  Mrs.  Hemans'  beautiful  poem  of 
the  lievellers,  and  said, 

"  You  too,  Clara,  would  banish  all  but  the  gay  in  heart 
from  your  festive  hall." 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  but  I  would  try  to  force  happiness  upon 
them,  and  only  allow  them  that  shade  of  melancholy — not 
without  something  of  enjoyment  in  it — which  makes  us  enter 
into  the  feelings  of  poetry,  and  the  charm  of  emotion.  I 
would  not  banish  Aer,  for  instance,"  pointing  to  Gertrude, 
"  though  in  Mrs.  Hemans'  words,  '  Her  eyes'  quick  flash 
through  their  troubled  shroud  '  does  not  always  indicate  a 
heart  at  ease  ;  but  I  try  to  teach  her  not  to  look  at  things 
too  seriously,  not  to  '"prendre  la  vie  au  tragique^  and  I  hope 
I  shall  succeed." 

Mrs.  Crofton,  who  had  been  listening,  smiled  and  said, 
"  Example  can  do  much,  my  dear  Lady  Clara,  but  Nature  is 
stronger  still,  and  I  do  not  expect  that  you  will  succeed  in 
teaching  the  soul  of  fire  that  shines  out  of  those  dark  eyes  to 
glide  along  life's  stream  in  the  rose-leaf  fashion  that  becomes 
you  so  well." 

Mrs.  Crofton  and  Lady  Clara  did  not  suit.  They  were  a 
little  too  alike,  and  a  great  deal  too  unlike.  Both  lived  in 
and  for  society ;  both  were  irreproachable  in  their  moral 
characters ;  but  Mrs.  Crofton  was  as  plain  as  Lady  Clara  was 
beautiful,  and  so  she  had  to  work  harder  in  her  vocatioUj 
though  she  succeeded  nearly  as  well.     She  was  not  as  eloquent, 


1G4  LADY-BIRD. 

as  graceful,  or  as  amiable  ;  but  she  was  sharper,  cleverer,  and 
droller.  No  one  was  ever  tired  of  her,  and  some  fastidious 
people  did  think  Lady  Clara  was  a  little  to(?  pictorial  in  her 
language,  and  high-tiown  in  her  ideas.  She  was  too  much  en- 
grossed in  her  own  impressions  to  watch  the  effect  she  made  on 
others  ;  but  Mrs.  Crofton  had  a  lynx  eye  which  always  detect- 
ed the  fluctuating  symptoms  of  interest  and  ennui  in  those 
she  spoke  to.  In  everything  she  said  there  was  more  power 
and  less  charm  than  in  the  other,  as  was  once  said  by  a  witty 
Frenchman  of  two  ladies.  '■'•  Elle  etait  le  male  de  Vespece^  dont 
Vaiitre  Hait  la  femelle." 

Mr.  Latimer  was  very  happy  at  Audley  Park,  for  he  had 
one  ruling  passion — the  investigation  of  characters,  and  there 
was  a  fine  field  for  it  in  the  present  party.  He  wrote  to  a 
friend : 

"  It  is  the  most  amusing  thing  in  the  world  to  live  in  this 
menagerie, — this  '  happy  family,'  in  which  I  feel  myself  like 
the  owl  with  whom  nobody  meddles,  and  who  sleeps  with  his 
eyes  open.  There  is  our  hostess,  a  lovely  bird  with  the  most 
stainless  plumage  and  the  sweetest  voice,  warbling  melliflu- 
ously  on  her  golden  perch,  but  keeping  at  a  respectful  distance 
from  that  clever  little  mocking-bird,  Mrs.  Crofton,  whose  sharp 
beak  pecks  rather  harder  than  is  always  agreeable.  There  is 
that  stately  Bird- of- Paradise,  Lady  lioslyn,  and  a  family  of 
canary-birds,  the  Miss  Aplcys,  pleasant  enough  if  they  did  not 
chirp  so  incessantly.  Then  they  have  got  another  young  creature 
whom  I  hardly  know  how  to  describe.  It  is  half  foreign  and 
half  English,  a  young  eaglet  perhaps,  born  in  the  Pyrenees,  but 
bred  in  an  old  house  in  this  old-fashioned  county.  Such  eyes 
it  has,  I  have  no  doubt  the}^  could  stare  at  the  sun  if  they 
tried.  You  know  I  am  not  often  in  the  humour  in  which  it 
would  be  safe  for  a  child  to  play  with  me,  but  this  young 
eaglet  is  not  afraid  of  my  snarling.  Then  we  have  all  sorts  of 
other  creatures  besides,  gentlemanlike  young  birds  like 
Egerton,  cock-sparrow  geniuses,  and  would-be  statesmen  like 
Marlow,  good-humoured,  honest  geese  like  Apley,  and  a  very 
tall  French  bird  whom  1  cannot  make  head  or  tail  of;  besides 
many  others,  for  the  cage  can  hardly  hold  us  all.  We  have 
not  fought  much  yet.  There  is  only  a  little  beating  of  wings 
and  hissing  now  and  then.  The  cock-sparrow  has  a  violent 
dislike  to  the  tall  French  bird,  but  they  have  not  come  to 
blows  yet.  The  canary-birds  look  with  a  jaundiced  eye  at  the 
eaglet,  perhaps  because  they  think  it  will  take  their  goose  for 


LADTBIRD,  165 

a  swan.  But  I  think  it  would  come  to  my  perch  sooner — and 
I  almost  wisii  it  would.  It  goes  by  the  name  of  Lady-Bird. 
By  the  way,  don't  you  remember  a  certain  Henry  Lifford  to 
whom  Ludy  Clara  was  engaged  some  twenty-two  years  ago, 
when  just  emerging  from  the  school-room  ?  This  is  his  daughter 
by  a  Spanish  wife.  I  hope  I  shall  not  make  a  fool  of  myself 
about  her." 

Gertrude  might  have  made  fools  of  almost  all  the  men 
who  saw  her,  had  she  chosen  it ;  and  sometimes  a  wicked  wish 
crossed  her  mind,  that  she  had  known  something  of  society 
before  Adrien  had  taken  from  her  all  desire  for  the  admira- 
tion of  others.  She  tried  to  shake  off  the  impression  he  had 
made  upon  her,  but  the  effort  proved  utterly  vain ;  a  look,  a 
word,  or  a  smile  from  him  were  more  to  her  than  the  homage 
or  adoration  of  the  whole  world  besides.  Ilis  unconscious 
power  over  her  was  unbounded.  She  did  not  conceive  the 
possibility  of  differing  with  him  in  opinion,  of  ever  acting 
again  in  any  way  that  she  might  have  heard  him  casually 
condemn.  His  slightest  word  was  law,  his  books  her  daily 
meditation,  his  presence  or  his  absence  the  regulating  cause 
of  her  cheerfulness  or  depression.  He  was  on  very  friendly 
terms  with  her,  but  nothing  more.  There  was  great  kindnea.s, 
but  no  devotion  in  his  manner,  and  she  never  wished  to  see 
him  at  her  feet  :  could  she  ever  inspire  him  with  an  interest 
in  her  fate,  which  would  justify  to  herself  her  ever-increasing 
regard  for  him  —  it  seemed  that  that  would  be  the  highest 
bliss  earth  could  offer.  When  they  talked  together,  she  was 
most  innocently  hypocritical :  for  she  so  identified  herself  with 
his  thoughts  and  his  feelings  that  they  seemed  naturally  to 
become  hers,  and  his  convictions  and  opinions  to  transfer 
themselves  into  her  mind  by  an  unconscious  process  of  assi- 
milation. She  talked  to  him  of  her  childhood,  of  her  home, 
of  her  mother,  but  in  a  different  way  from  that  which  was 
usual  to  her.  This  was  not  dissimulation  ;  it  was  a  change 
wrought  by  the  influence  he  exercised  over  her.  Hardness 
melted  in  the  light  of  his  eyes ;  levity  disappeared  before  his 
earnestness,  and  pride  vanished  in  the  presence  of  his  perfect 
simplicity. 

She  happened  to  be  alone  in  the  drawing-room  when  Mau- 
rice arrived.  The  day  was  cold,  and  everybody  taking  exer- 
cise, which  she  could  not  yet  do;  and  with  a  book  in  her  hand, 
and  her  eyes  as  often  fixed  on  the  fire  as  on  its  pages,  she  had 
spent  the  hours  since  luncheon.     She  was  taking  a  resolution 


166  LADY-BIRD. 

which  cost  her  a  great  effort,  but  in  which  she  was  swayed  by 
the  one  ruling  influence  which  now  governed  all  her  thoughts 
and  actions.  She  must  return  to  Lifford  Grange  the  next 
day.  It  could  not  be  right  to  stay  away  from  her  mother  any 
longer  ;  and  if  she  could  drive  in  the  pony-chaise  at  Audley 
Park,  she  was  well  enough,  it  was  clear,  to  go  home  in  a  car- 
riage. She  was  not  without  hope  that  Lady  Clara  would  in- 
vite, and  her  mother  allow  her  to  come  back  to  the  Paradise 
she  was  about  to  leave ;  but  she  must  go  and  see  her  mother. 
Adrien  had  said  something  the  day  before — had  asked  a  cas- 
ual question — which  had  fixed  her  wavering  thoughts  on  the 
subject:  but  it  was  an  immense  effort  to  go  without  being  sure 
of  coming  back — sure  of  finding  him  there  again.  For  the  first 
time  she  thought  of  the  future  as  connected  with  him, — recol- 
lected that  though  he  had  relations  and  interests  in  England 
and  in  Ireland,  his  country  was  France,  and  the  chances  of 
life  might  never  bring  them  together  again.  "Was  this  pos- 
sible ?  "  she  asked  herself.  "  Possible  to  embark  one's  all  of 
happiness  in  a  bark  that  casually  floats  alongside  of  ours  on 
the  stream  of  life,  and  then  see  it  drift  away  in  another  direc- 
tion, without  the  power  of  remonstrance  or  complaint?"  It 
seemed  like  signing  her  own  death-warrant  to  propose  to  go 
away.  "  Eut  would  I  not  die  if  lie  thought  it  right  ?  "  she 
mentally  exclaimed, —  smiled  at  her  own  extravagance,  and 
then  sighed  ;  for  her  conscience  protested  against  the  rank 
idolatry  of  her  heart. 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Maurice  Redmond 
was  ushered  in.  He  started  when  he  saw  her,  but  quickly 
recovering  himself  he  came  up  to  her,  and  was  received  most 
kindly.  She  was  very  glad  to  see  him,  and  they  spent  some 
time  together  before  any  one  came  in.  "  How  strange  it  seems, 
Maurice,  to  meet  Aere,"  she  said.  "  Hitherto  when  we  have 
conversed,  it  has  always  been  either  in  the  open  air,  or  on  the 
downs  or  the  woods  where  we  used  to  play  in  former  times,  or 
in  Mrs.  Redmond's  cottage,  or  mamma's  dark  room.  It  seems 
to  me  a  whole  year  since  my  a.ccident.  Don't  you  think  there 
are  weeks  in  which  one  lives  a  life  ?  " 

"  There  ar,e  moments,"  he  answered,  "  in  which  I  suppose 
the  happiness  or  the  misery  of  a  whole  life  can  be  concen- 
trated." 

"  Yes,"  she  thoughtfully  answered,  "  I  can  imagine  that  it 
might  be  so.  What  has  been  the  happiest  moment  of  your 
life,  Mauiice?" 


lADY-BIRD.  107 

She  was  thinking  very  little  of  the  person  she  addressed. 
She  had  forgotten  that  it  had  ever  crossed  her  mind  that  he 
admired  her  even  in  the  distant  respectful  manner  which  it 
had  once  amused  her  to  observe.  It  was  absently  she  had 
asked  that  question,  as  she  might  have  inquired  what  was  the 
most  beautiful  view  he  had  ever  seen,  and  she  did  not  remark 
that  his  face  flushed  as  he  answered,  "  The  one  when  I  nearly 
fainted  at  the  Woodlands'  breakfast."  She  smiled  and  said, 
"  You  like  extremes,  I  see.  The  pleasure  of  success,  preceded 
by  an  instant's  suifering  to  make  it  keener,  is  your  favourite 
idea  of  happiness.  Well,  again  I  say  it  may  be  so,  but  I 
don't  quite  like  the  receipt.  I  feel  witli  regard  to  happiness 
as  children  do  about  a  promised  toy.  '  Give  it  me  iioio? — 
How  is  Mary  ?  " 

'•  Well,  (juite  well,"  Lo  answered  in  a  tone  of  dejection  ; 
but  rousing  himself,  added,  "  you  know  she  is  so  unselfish  that 
she  would  never  tell  us  if  she  was  not  so ;  that  is,  as  long  as 
she  could  exert  herself  as  usual." 

"  She  is  good,"  Gertrude  exclaimed. 

"  0  she  is  good,"  he  retorted,  "  good  beyond  what  any  one 
can  know  or  imagine.  There  are  depths  of  tenderness  and  of 
patience  in  her  heart  which  canuot  be  fathomed.  Even  I — 
who  have  known  her  from  childhood,  and  revered  her  almost 
as  a  saint — I  am  sometimes  astonished  at  her  goodness." 

"  Do  you  think  her  as  good  as  one  person  whom  you  used 
to  talk  to  me  about — as  M.  d'Arberg  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so.  They  are  both  as  near  perfection  as 
I  can  fancy  human  beings  can  be,  but  Mary  has  none  of  the 
stimulants  and  rewards  which  a  man's  career  holds  out  to  vir- 
tue.    She  has  no  earthly  reward." 

"  Except  your  affection,"  Gertrude  said,  for  the  first  time 
alluding  in  speaking  to  him  to  the  attachment  existing  be- 
tween them. 

"■  '•  Ay,  I  love  her,"  he  answered,  in  a  tone  of  unaccounta- 
ble emotion  and  irritation  ;  "  God  help  her,  I  love  her  very 
much." 

This  sentence  seemed  strange  to  Gertrude,  and  she  looked 
at  him  inquiringly.  He  did  not  notice  i't,  but  said — '■  And 
you  have  made  acquaintance  with  Adrien  d'Arberg.  Had 
I  said  too  much  about  him,  Lady-Bird, —  Miss  Lifford.  I 
mean  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,  Maurice,  everybody  here  calls  me  so,  and 
you  who  gave  me  the  name  have  a  better  right  than  any  one 
to  do  so." 


108  LADY-BIRD. 

"  O  Lady-Bird,  thank  you,"  he  exclaimed,  and  seizing  her 
hand,  kissed  it.  "  Forgive  me  ;  in  Italy  the  very  beggars  kiss 
the  hand  that  relieves  them.  It  is  only  in  England  that  it  is 
thought  presumptuous."  She  felt  his  manner  odd,  and  ab- 
ruptly changed  the  subject.  "  I  am  going  back  to  Liflford 
Grange  to-morrow."  "  To-morrow  !  for  how  long  ?  "  "0 
probably  for  good  and  all." 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Latimer  came  into  the  room,  nodded 
to  Maurice,  and  sat  down  between  him  and  Gertrude,  opposite 
to  the  fire.  "  Well,  Lady-Bird,  you  have  not  been  out  to- 
day. What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself?  What  are 
your  studies  ?  I  should  like  to  know  how  you  spend  your 
time  when  we  are  all  out  of  the  way.  You  are  one  of  the  few 
women  I  have  ever  met  with  who  seems  to  like  to  be  alone. 
You  think  a  great  deal  ?  " 

She  put  her  fingers  to  her  temples,  and  said,  "  It  is  a  mill, 
always  at  work,  but  it  grinds  more  chaff  than  corn." 

"  I  believe  it  would  grind  anything  you  chose  to  put  into 
it.     What  has  it  been  busy  upon  to-day  ?  " 

"  A  point  of  duty,  Mr.  Latimer." 

"  0  what  a  dry  bone." 

"  But  with  marrow  in  it,  too." 

•'  Who  threw  it  in — yourself,  or  somebody  else  ?  " 

"  Conscience  picked  it  up,  threw  it  in " 

"  And  it  has  been  ground  into  nothing." 

"  No,  into  something — and  something  disagreeable,  too." 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  The  unpleasant  circumstance  for  myself  that  I  am  going 
away  to-morrow." 

"  0  stuff  and  nonsense  ;  you  can't  go  away  " 

"  I  wish  I  could  not ;  but  I  can,  and  shall." 

"  But  you  will  come  back  here  soon  1  " 

"  I  don't  know  :  one  never  knows  anything  in  this  world, 
I  find.     It  is  all  a  living  '■an  Jour  Id  Journ^'e.'  " 

"  0  but  we  won't  live  without  seeing  you  again.  We  shall 
all  die." 

"  I  will  come  at  all  events  to  yoiir  funeral,  Mr.  Latimer." 

"  And  not  to  Mark  Apley's  ?  Poor  fellow  !  he  will  die 
first.  /  shall  make  a  struggle,  and  pine-  away  by  degrees. 
But  what  do  you  do  with  yourself  in  that  enchanted  abode 
where  nobody  penetrates?  Has  anybody  ever  got  in?  Have 
you,  Mr.  lledmond  1  " 

"  0  yes,  he  has,"  she  answered  quickly,  "  often  enough. 
He  is  'mon  pays,'  as  the  French  peasants  say." 


LADY-BIRD.  189 

"  They  toll  me  you  read  immensely." 

"  How  do  tlLcy  know  anything  about  it  ?  " 

"  Here  is  Lady  Clara,  and  the  about-to-bc-annihilated 
Mark.      She  says  she  must  go  away  to-morrow." 

"  So  she  told  me  this  morning,  but  I  would  not  believe  her. 
Besides,  she  ought  not  to  go  before  the  doctor  has  given  his 
permission." 

"  I  must^  dear  Lady  Clara.  I  have  told  mamma  to  send 
the  carriage  for  me  to-morrow." 

"  Then  you  must  come  back  as  soon  as  you  can,  dear  child. 
We  cannot  do  without  you." 

"  So  I  told  her.  She  will  find  us  lying  about  like  dead 
flies,  if  she  stays  away  too  long.  Perhaps  Sir  William  Mar- 
low  may  survive,  and  wander  about  the  house  like  the  last 
man." 

Mark's  usually  radiant  face  was  overcast.  He  was  pro- 
voked at  Mr.  Latimer's  manner  to  Gertrude.  He  felt  he  liad 
not  made  any  way  with  her  since  she  had  been  at  Audley 
Park  ;  he  was  not  quick  enough  to  discover  where  was  the 
danger  he  had  to  fear,  and  was  jealous  of  the  sort  of  easy  foot- 
ing on  which  3Ir.  Latimer  was  with  her.  although  he  was  quite 
old  enough  to  be  her  father.  Maurice  was  disappointed  at 
her  departure,  and  yet  relieved  in  one  sense  by  the  reflectiou 
that  she  was  to  bo  replaced  in  the  solitary  position  where  none 
approached  her.  He  felt  frightened  at  his  own  agitation 
when  any  other  man  spoke  to  her  ;  Mr.  Latimer's  manner,  his 
jokes  about  Mark,  were  intolerable  to  him.  If  he  felt  that 
already,  what  would  it  be  to  live  in  the  same  house  with  her, 
in  the  midst  of  such  a  society  ?  He  should  never  be  able  to 
control  his  nervous  irritation.  It  was  better  she  should  go. 
He  would  have  wished  to  hurry  her  away.  Once  within 
those  old  walls  of  Liffbrd  Grange,  he  could  think  of  her, 
dream  of  her,  get  a  glimpse  of  her  now  and  then,  and  no  one 
else  would  gaze  on  her  beauty, — no  one  else  would  call  her 
Lady-Bird,  or  talk  in  joke  of  dying  for  her.  What  business 
had  they  to  joke  with  such  a  thought  1  Poor  Maurice,  it  was 
lo  laughing  matter  to  him.  While  he  was  dressing  for  din- 
ner, he  embodied  these  thoughts  in  verse,  according  to  hia 
usual  practice,  and  set  them  to  an  impassioned  German  air. 

"  Return,  return  where  careless  eyes  may  never  rest  on  thee, 
Where  none,  not  even  once  by  chance,  may  see  thy  face  but  me. 
Go  back  to  those  okl  yew-trees'  shade,  wliere  often  from  afar 
I've  watched  thee  as  the  learned  watch  in  the  deep  sky  a  star. 


170  LA  )Y-BIRD. 

Go  back  where  birds  and  whisp'ring  winds  alone  will  haunt  thine  ears 
Go  back  to  tliose  destrted  walks,  the  haunts  of  former  years. 
The  jests,  the  smiles  of  thoughtless  men,  were  never  meant  for  one 
Who  in  those  silent  solemn  lialls  has  lived  and  bloomed  alone  ; — 
Let  them  not  praise  thee,  hold  thy  hand,  and  call  thee  by  a  name 
Which  time  has  stampetl  upon  my  brain  in  characters  of  flame. 
Go,  for  the. sake  of  pity,  go.     Thy  every  word  and  look, 
Here,  amidst  those  avIio  laugh  or  sigh,  my  spirit  cannot  brook  " 

There  were  sincere  and  insincere  regrets  uttered  for  Ger- 
trude's departure,  and  sincere  and  insincere  wishes  for  her  re- 
turn. She  did  not  care  much  for  any  of  them.  Lady  Clara 
whom  she  was  really  fond  of,  she  knew  was  sorry  to  lose  her. 
Though  worldly  in  some  respects,  or  rather  of  the  world,  there 
was  an  openness  in  her  clear  eyes  and  smooth  brow  which  was 
unmistakeable.  The  truth  was  in  her,  and  her  smile  was  a 
pledge.  Adrien  had  not  approached  her  that  day ;  and  it 
was  rather  late  in  the  evening  before  he  did  so.  He  had  been 
engaged  in  a  long  conversation  with  Mrs.  Crofton  and  Sir 
William  Marlow.  The  latter  had  treated  him  "  Du  haut  de 
sa  'petite  grandew-''''  at  first ;  but,  finding  what  an  adversary 
he  had  to  deal  with,  had  become  eager,  and  put  forth  all  the 
strength  of  his  understanding,  and  a  close  encounter  had  taken 
place  between  them  on  some  of  the  leading  questions  of  the 
day.  Mrs.  Crofton,  with  that  admirable  art  of  listening  which 
she  possessed  to  an  eminent  degree,  had  stimulated  the  sharp 
encounter,  and  given  an  amusing  turn  to  it,  when  Sir  William 
was  growing  bitter.  Nearly  opposite  to  them  sat  Gertrude, 
with  one  of  the  Miss  Apleys,  and  several  men  around  them. 
Maurice  was  sitting  on  a  chair  a  little  behind  her,  and  she 
now  and  then  turned  round  to  speak  to  him. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  if  they  would  think 
M.  d'Arberg  quite  sane  here,  if  they  knew  some  of  the  things 
he  does.  To  me,  who  know  how  a  great  deal  of  his  time  is 
employed  and  the  use  he  makes  of  his  fortune,  it  seems  so  odd 
to  see  him  in  this  sort  of  society  making  himself  agreeable  like 
any  ordinary  man  of  the  world." 

"  He  is  very  rich,  is  not  he  ?  " 

"  Very  rich,  I  believe  his  mother  was  an  heiress,  his  father 
married  her  when  he  was  an  emigre.  Plis  good  works  aro 
prodigious,  also  ;  but  they  are  done  so  secretly  that  few  peo 
pie  know  anything  of  them.  I  am  convinced  he  will  end  by 
being  a  priest."  Gertrude  turned  pale  ;  Maurice  saw  it  and 
a  jealous  pang  shot  through  his  heart.     Thank  Heaven,  sLo 


LADY-BIUD.  iTl 

was  going  the  next  day,  and  d' Arbcrg  would  not,  probably,  stay 
long  in  England.  They  miglit  never  meet  again.  Why  had 
he  not  dreaded  their  becoming  acquainted?  Why,  fool  that 
he  was,  had  he  talked  to  her  so  much  about  him  ?  He  went 
on  in  an  odd  abrupt  manner  to  say  that  he  hurt  his  fortune  by 
his  extravagant  charities,  that  this  was  probably  the  reason 
why  ho  had  never  married 

"  0,  no."  she  said  in  a  quiet  manner,  "  Mr.  Audley,  who 
knows  liim  well,  says  he  has  large  property  both  in  France  and 
in  Ireland." 

"  You  have  ascertained  that  he  is  rich  ?  "  he  answered  in  a 
tone  of  ill-disguised  agitation. 

"  I  have  heard  it,"  she  said,  and  then  became  absent,  for 
the  hand  of  the  French  clock  was  travelling  fast,  and  her  impa 
tience  was  becoming  almost  intolerable.  At  last  the  conver-. 
sation  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table  came  to  an  end,  and 
Adrion,  as  if  he  had  perceived  her  for  the  first  time  that  eve- 
ning, came  and  sat  in  the  chair  opposite  to  her.  -Miss  Apley 
was  talking  eagerly  to  some  one  on  the  other  side  of  the 
couch.  Maurice  had  seized  a  newspaper,  and  seemed  engross- 
ed with  it,  but  was  still  near  enough  to  hear  every  word  that 
passed.  '"  I  hear  you  are  going  home  to-morrow,"  Adrien  said, 
and  looked  at  her  with  an  expression  of  interest.  '•  Yes,"  she 
answered,  without  raising  her  eyes  from  the  nosegay  she  held 
in  her  hand,  "  life  cannot  be  spent  amongst  flowers  :  not  mine 
at  least." 

"  You  have  enjoyed  yourself  here  1 " 

"  Almost  too  much.  I  wish  I  had  not  been  thrown  on  this 
bed  of  roses,  for  I  am  afraid  it  has  unfitted  me  for  another 
couch." 

"  Well,  it  certainly  is  not  a  very  bracing  atmosjihere  that 
we  live  in  here.  It  is  floating  down  the  stream,  instead  of 
pulling  against  it." 

"  And  yet,"  she  said,  "  what  fault  can  be  found  with  such 
an  existence  as  Lady  Clara's  ?  IIow  innocent  it  is  !  how  afi"ec- 
tionate  she  is  !  Loving  and  beloved,  giving  pleasure  and  re- 
ceiving it.  I  think  it  is  a  delightful  sight  to  see  her.  so 
beautiful  herself,  in  the  midst  of  beauty  of  every  kind.  By 
changing  a  single  word  one  could  apply  to  her  that  beautiful 
French  line, 

'  Et  rose  elle  a  vecu,  coir.me  vivcrit  les  roscr-.' " 


172  LADY-lilRD. 

"  True,"  he  answered,  with  one  of  his  slow  smiles,  "  bul 
was  she  sent  into  the  workl  to  live  the  life  of  a  rose,  or  to 
bear  her  part  in  the  great  battle-field  of  life  ?  Her  existencf 
always  seems  to  me  too  much  like  Eve's  in  Paradise — Eve 
before  not  after  the  Fall." 

Gertrude  pulled  off  all  the  pink  petals  of  one  of  the  flowers 
in  her  hand  and  showed  him  the  green  calyx  which  formed  a 
sort  of  cross.  "  Aye  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  it  will  be  found  in 
the  end,  but  ought  it  not  to  have  been  taken  up  sooner  1 " 

"  I  should  like  the  battle-field  of  life,"  she  said,  "but  to 
sit  still  is  what  I  dread." 

"  We  must  each  of  us  fight  at  our  post,"  he  answered. 
"  The  order  of  the  day  is  all  that  concerns  us.  Do  you  go 
early  to-morrow  1  " 

"  Not  very  early,"  she  replied,  with  a  faltering  voice. 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  on  Sunday  I  might  hear  mass  at 
the  chapel  at  Lifibrd  Grrauge, — it  is  nearer  than  Stonehouse- 
Icigh,  and  I  should  be  glad  to  see  Father  Lifford  al  the  same 
time."  Her  eyes  flashed  with  a  joy  that  she  could  not  dis- 
guise, and  she  assented  briefly,  but  in  a  manner  that  showed 
the  delight  she  felt. 

"  Mamma  will  see  you,  perhaps,  if  she  is  pretty  well." 

"  Would  she?  I  should  be  so  glad  to  know  her." 

"  She  never  receives  strangers,  but " 

"  But  y<^u  think  she  would  see  me  'I  " 

'•  I  have  read  to  her  your  books  ;  and  you  have  been  so 
kind  to  me." 

"  Kind  !  "  he  said  with  a  smile. 

'•  Yes,  you  carried  me  here  the  day  of  my  accident.  I 
am  sure  she  will  wish  to  thank  you.  Can  you  speak 
Spanish  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Tliat  will  do,  it  is  all  right," — and  with  a  movement  of 
irresistible  delight  she  threw  up  her  nosegay  into  the  air,  and 
caught  it  back  again  as  it  fell.  He  looked  a  little  thoughtful, 
and  did  not  talk  to  her  any  more  that  evening,  but  sat  on  in 
the  same  place.  Maurice  had  been  asked  to  sing  a  new  ro- 
mance which  Mrs.  Crofton  had  just  received  from  Paris,  the 
words  by  Victor  Hugo  ;  it  was  called  the  "  Fou  de  Tolede." 
He  complied :  when  he  came  to  the  following  stanza  his  eyes 
fixed  themselves  on  Grertrude  : 

Un  jour  Sabine  a  tout  donn6 — 
Sa  beautt;  de  Colombe 


LADY-BIRD.  173 

Et  son  amour, 
Pour  I'iinneau  d'or  du  Compte  de  Saldagne 

Pour  uu  bijou — 
Le  vent  qui  vient  a.  travers  la  raontagne 

Merendrafoa 

Sho  did  not  observe  his  emotion,  but  the  music  of  this  song 
— which  was  wild  like  a  dream  of  passion — seemed  to  suit  her 
thoughts  also. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  Not  chance  of  Witli  or  [dace  luis  made  us  friends. 

Beiiifr of  (HlVoroiit  loniriu's  mikI  n:iUons, 

But  the  endeavour  for  the  self-sanie  ends. 
With  tlic  same  hopes,  and  fears,  and  asjiirations.' 

SlIAKSPEARK. 

In  her  mother's  arms— at  her  motlicrs  feet — Gertrude 
spent  tlie  next  few  days.  That  dark  room  had  grown  vei'y 
dear  to  her.  Her  feelings  were  now  more  in  unison  with  its 
aspect.  The  picture  of  the  Duke  of  Gandia  seemed  to  look 
approvingly  upon  her,  as  by  every  little  exertion  in  her  power 
she  endeavoured  to  contribute  to  her  mother's  comfort.  She 
told  her  again  and  again  all  the  jiarticulars  of  lier  stay  at 
Audley  Park,  amused  her  with  descriptions  of  the  people  she 
had  seen,  made  her  smile  sometimes  and  sigh  at  oth«_-rH,  and 
understood  her  smiles  but  not  her  sighs.  Then  she  talked  to 
her  of  Adrien,  gave  a  minute  account  of  his  looks,  of  his  man- 
ner, repeated  every  word  he  had  said  to  her,  and  announced 
that  he  would  come  to  Liflford  Grange  on  the  following 
Sunday. 

"You  must  tell  Father  Liiford,  love.  I  wonder  what  your 
father  would  feel  about  it ' " 

"About  what,  mamma?  About  M.  d'Arberg's  coming  to 
church  ?  You  know  the  chapel  is  open  to  every  one  on  Sun- 
day." 

"  Yes,  dearest,  but  if  he  comes  I  think  you  must  ask  him 
to  have  some  luncheon." 

"  Ye3,  to  be  sure,"  Gertrude  said,  with  her  brightest  smile. 
•''  f^e  must  not  lot  him  starvfi,  and  then  you  must  see  hira." 

•'  0  no,  my  dearest  child  I  cannot  do  that." 


17-1  LADY-BIRD. 

"  Oh,  you  must,  dearest  mamma,  it  will  do  you  a  world  of 
good.  How  I  wish  I  had  taken  to  managing  you  long  ago. 
You  would  be  so  much  better  by  this  time.  I  am  beginning 
to  manage  Father  Lifford  too.  By  going  a  little  lame,  I  make 
him  do  whatever  I  like  now." 

"  0,  but  Gertrude,  that  is  very  naughty." 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  lyretcnd  to  limp,  I  only  show  it  off.      Oh 

we  could  be  so  happy  here  if "     Here  she  stopped,  and  a 

dark    cloud  passed    over  her  face.     In  a  moment   she  said- 
"  Lady  Clara  would  come  and  see  you  if  you  liked,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Lifford  became  agitated.  "  My  child,  don't  let  her 
come.  I  could  not  bear  it.  I  am  very,  very  grateful  to  her 
for  her  kindness  to  you,  but  indeed  I  cannot  see  her.  I  can 
see  nobody.     I  am  not  fit  for  it." 

"  Not  Lady  Clara,  then,  not  anybody  but  M.  d'Arberg. 
He  will  talk  Spanish  to  you,  and  you  will  understand  each 
other  so  well.  Dearest,  when  I  talk  to  him,  it  gives  me  such 
a  wish  to  be  good  like  him." 

Mrs.  Lifford  looked  tenderly  at  her  child,  and  said,  "  Gel- 
trudina,  don't  give  away  that  little  heart  of  thine  to  a  French- 
man." She  put  her  hand  on  her  heart  with  a  smile,  and  said 
to  herself,  "  I  have  none  left  to  give  away.  But  he  is  just  as 
much  English  as  French,  or  Spanish,  or  anything  else,  mamma. 
He  is  only  like  himself" 

"  Do  you  think  he  likes  you,  Gertrude?" 

"He  does  not  dislike  me.  and  souietiines  I  have  thought 
he  appeared  a  little  interested  about  me.  But  I  am  no  more 
worthy  of  hiin — than  Muff,"  she  said,  hiding  her  face  with  the 
little  dog's  flossy  head. 

'■'•  And  then,  dearest,  you  should  not  think  of  anything  of 
the  sort  without  knowing  more  about  him." 

"I  do  know  all  abuat  him  ;  I  know  that  he  is  the  best,  the 
cleverest,  the  noblest  of  human  beings." 

"  That  may  be,  dear  child.  Father  Lifford  says  he  is  very 
good  ;   but  that  is  not  all  that  your  futlicr  would  think  of" 

"  But,  dearest  mamma,  M.  d'Arberg  is  not  thinking  of  me 
\w  the  way  you  mean ;  other  people  paid  me  attentions  at 
Audley  Park.  He  did  not,  Maurice  Bedmond  says  he  will 
be  a  priest ;  so  you  need  have  no  apprehensions  on  that  sub- 
ject. If  he  ever  should  think  of  me,  I  have  no  fear  that  his 
family  could  be  objected  to.  Mr.  Audley  said  it  was  very 
ancient,  and  he  is  very  rich  and  everything  people  care  about-— 
but  he  will  never  dream  of  marrying  me.  To  be  hi&  wife 
would  be  too  great  a  blessing." 


LADY-BIRD.  1*6 

«  0  Gertrude,  Gertrude." 

"  You  will  see  him  on  Sunday,  mamma ;  don't  think  me 
)».o  foolish  till  then.  Now  I  shall  go  down  stairs,  and  play  at 
chess  with  Father  Lifford.  It  always  puts  him  in  a  good  hu- 
mour to  beat  me,  and  I  want  him  to  be  in  a  very  good  humour 
just  now." 

In  spite  of  her  remaining  lameness,  she  walked  briskly 
towards  the  drawing-room.  Her  manner  was  altogether 
changed — its  restless  listlessness  had  disappeared,  and  her 
mother  was  confirmed  in  the  belief  that  a  little  change  was  a 
good  thing  for  her.  She  did  not  yet  understand  the  great 
change  that  had  almost  transformed  her  into  another  crea- 
ture,— the  awakening  of  that  deep  power  of  loving  which  had 
hitherto  lain  in  her  heart  "like  an  unopened  flower." 

Adrien  d'Arberg  had  been  much  attached  in  his  early 
youth  to  a  cousin  of  his  who  had  died  of  consumption  at  the 
age  of  eighteen.  Her  virtues,  her  ardent  piety,  and  her  saint- 
ly death,  had  made  an  impression  upon  him  which  nothing 
had  effaced,  and  her  memory  had  been  associated  with  every 
interest  and  exertion  of  his  life.  She  was  a  German, — one  of 
those  fair,  pale  girls,  whose  eyes  have  a  natural  sentimentality 
bordering  on  melancholy.  Her  temper  was  serene  and  seri- 
ous. There  had  been  something  at  once  romantic  and  re- 
ligious in  her  affection  for  him.  She  had  had  a  presentiment 
of  her  early  death,  and  had  never  looked  forward  to  earthly 
happiness.  Whenever  he  talked  of  the  future,  and  of  their 
marriage,  she  shook  her  head  without  sadness,  but  with  a  pro- 
found conviction  that  she  should  not  live  to  be  his  wife. 
There  was  something  holy  in  her  face :  she  was  like  one  of 
Francia's  or  Pcrugino's  saints,  or  like  the  picture  which  old 
chroniclers  draw  of  "  the  dear  St.  Elizabeth  of  Hungary." 

A  very  short  time  before  her  death  she  called  hiin  to  her, 
and  told  him  that  this  might  be  the  last  time  she  should  see 
him,  and  that  she  wished  to  take  leave  of  him  then.  She 
enjoined  him  to  do  in  the  world  all  the  good  she  would  have 
wished  to  do,  and  add  daily  to  the  treasure  they  had  begun  to 
lay  up  together  in  heaven.  '"  She  had  made  her  meditation 
that  morning,"  she  said,  "  on  the  history  of  Martha  and  Mary, 
and  felt  as  if  he  would  say  that  she  left  him  to  do  all  the 
serving  alone  ;  but  you  will  not  grudge  me,  Adrien,"  she 
added,  "  that  better  part  which  I  indeed  have  not  chosen,  but 
which  has  been  choscju  for  me."  She  gave  him  much  advice, — 
amongst  other  things  asked  him  to  write  the  long  work  which 


176  LABi'-BIRD. 

he  had  since  accoinpllshed.  She  had  a  brother  whom  she 
dearly  loved,  and  who  had  lost  his  faith.  His  conversion  had 
been  the  object  of  her  prayers  and  of  her  hopes,  and  now  of 
her  request  to  Adrien.  She  told  him  that  she  had  never 
prayed  for  health  or  for  any  temporal  blessing,  but  for  one 
thing  alone,  and  that  she  had  even  offered  up  her  life  to  obtain 
it,  that  was,  that  he  might  lead  a  perfect  life  on  earth,  and  do 
much  for  God  and  for  the  Church.  "  I  know  not,"  she  added, 
''  if  He  has  accepted  the  sacrifice  ;  it  is  delightful  to  me  to 
hope  it,  and  do  you,  Adrien,  always  act  as  if  it  were  so 
accepted.  In  every  temptation — not  to  sin  only,  but  to  falter- 
ing in  the  upward  path — think  of  my  early  death,  and  remem- 
ber that  you  have  double  work  to  do." 

Still  deeper  thoughts  and  tenderer  words  she  spoke,  too 
solemn  to  be  here  repeated,  and  hitherto  he  had  carried  them 
in  his  heart,  and  they  had  borne  fruit  in  his  life.  She 
remained  his  beau  ideal  of  woman,  and  it  was  with  almost  a 
religious  worship  that  he  honoured  her  memory.  He  had  not 
thought  of  love,  or  of  marriage  since.  Sometimes  he  had  felt 
yearnings  for  the  religious  life,  but  had  not  yet  found  in  him- 
self the  vocation  to  it.  He  had  not  lived  much  in  society, 
and  no  woman  but  Ida  had  ever  made  any  impression  upon 
him.  Once,  in  compliance  with  the  wishes  of  his  family,  he 
had  tried  to  like  a  young  person  whom  they  recommended  him 
to  marry.  They  thought  she  resembled  his  early  love,  and 
fancied  she  would  captivate  him,  but  she  had  only  Ida's 
features  without  her  soul,  and  he  shrunk  from  the  likeness  as 
from  a  deception  and  a  snare.  On  the  night  that  in  the 
course  of  a  stroll  through  the  park  at  Audley  Place  he  had 
found  Gertrude  insensible  and  carried  her  home  in  his  strong 
arms,  he  had  only  just  seen  that  she  was  beautiful,  or  would 
be  so  when  animation  returned ;  when  he  heard  from  Lady 
Clara  her  name,  and  her  family  and  home  were  described  to 
him,  he  felt  interested  about  her. 

There  were  several  reasons  for  his  being  so,  and  though  it 
was  as  yet  but  a  transient  feeling,  it  was  more  than  he  had 
felt  for  any  woman,  except  Ida.  He  remembered  how,  in 
Italy,  Maurice  Redmond  used  to  talk  to  him  about  her,  and 
his  having  once  shown  him  a  very  odd  clever  letter  she  had 
written  to  him.  Wlien  he  began  talking  to  her.  he  was  a  little 
startled  sometimes,  but  on  the  whole  attracted.  As  it  was 
said  before,  from  the  first  moment  of  their  acquaintance  he 
had  so  much  uncoubcious  influence  over  her,  that  her  some- 


LADY-BIUD,  1^7 

what  strange  opinions  and  the  peculiarities  of  her  impetuous 
and  yet  reserved  character  were  so  much  softened  as  only  to 
make  her  original  and  amusing.  She  was  as  quick  as  light- 
ning, understood  in  an  instant  anytliing  he  said  to  her.  and 
astonished  him  by  the  vivacity  of  her  intelligence.  Perhaps 
he  thought  her  rather  more  genuine  than  she  was.  Perhaps 
there  was  a  little  more  of  self-knowledge  than  appeared  on  the 
surface  of  her  captivating  laisser-aller^  but  her  feelings  were 
genuine  even  if  there  was  a  little  art  sometimes  in  her  way  of 
conducting  herself. 

It  is  difficult  to  have  strong  volitions,  to  be  excessively 
clever,  to  have  great  powers  of  self-command,  and  yet  to  be 
open  as  the  day.  Shallow  waters  are  easily  transparent — but 
it  is  rare  to  find  a  very  deep  and  very  transparent  stream. 
His  own  character  was  such,  but  in  both  cases  the  exception 
is  rare.  Lady  Clara  had  often  spoken  to  him  of  Mr.  LifFord, 
and  that  man's  destiny  had  always  been  to  him  a  subject  of 
regret.  It  was  positive  pain  to  a  nature  like  his  to  see  bless- 
ings wasted,  intellect  thrown  away,  means  of  usefulness  dis- 
regarded, and  by  one  who  could  have  done  so  much  for  all  the 
objects  he  had  most  at  heart.  When  he  looked  at  the 
beautiful  animated  girl  who  seemed  so  ready  to  adopt  all 
high  views  and  aims,  and  to  sympathise  so  warmly  in  every- 
thing great,  useful,  and  noble,  he  wondered  if  she  could  not 
i-ouse  her  father  from  the  torpid  indifference  in  which  he  was 
sunk,  and  stimulate  him  to  adopt  another  course;  and  this 
idea  had  ind^^ced  him  also  to  become  well  acquainted  with  her, 
and  to  endeavour  to  inspire  her  with  such  an  ambition.  By 
degrees  he  perceived  or  guessed  what  was  the  case  : — that  she 
had  no  belief  in  her  father's  affection,  and  that  if  there  had 
not  been  bitter  passages  in  her  life,  at  least  there  were  sore 
corners  in  her  heart.  Those  who  have  felt  themselves  how 
suffering  can  be  turned,  I  had  almost  said  into  happiness  and 
I  will  not  unsay  it,  but  at  all  events  into  a  blessing,  have  a 
sort  of  yearning  desire  to  make  others  and  especially  young 
people  understand  it.  Bitterness  is  the  worst  sort  of  suffering, 
but  perhaps  when  the  right  remedy  is  applied  it  is  the  most 
certainly  to  be  cured.  And  by  a  few  unpretending  words, 
some  instances  quoted  here  and  there  from  real  life,  he  con- 
veyed to  her  his  own  receipt  for  happiness  ;  but  in  mixing  up 
the  draught  he  unconsciously  put  in  an  ingredient  he  had  not 
intended.  It  was  an  intoxicating  addition,  and  might  nullify 
what  in  appearance  it  seemed  to  second. 

12 


178  LADY-BIRD. 

As  he  was  waiting  in  the  drawing-room,  on  the  Sunday 
morning  after  her  departure,  for  the  post-chaise  that  was  tc 
take  him  to  Liiford  Grange,  he  took  up  accidentally  his  owe 
book  which  was  lying  on  the  table,  and  opened  on  the  pagf 
where,  in  faint  pencil-marks,  she  had  drawn  a  key;  and  he  read 
the  Italian  lines  underneath  it.  "  True,"  he  said  to  himself 
_"  that  is  the  key  to  what  seems  at  times  such  a  problem  to 
one's  self — one's  strength,  and  one's  weakness."  As  he  drove 
through  the  sombre  avenue  of  LifFord  Grange,  and  caught 
siglit  of  the  melancholy  old  mansion  at  the  end  of  it,  which, 
with  the  sullen-looking  view  beyond,  formed  a  striking  contrast 
with  the  scenery  between  it  and  Audley  Park,  he  thought 
what  a  strange  flower  had  blossomed  in  that  dull  spot.  As  the 
post-chaise  stopped,  a  servant  came  up  to  the  door  and  showed 
him  the  way  to  the  chapel,  which  was  at  the  end  of  the  wing 
which  contained  Mrs.  Lifford's  apartments.  It  was  very 
small,  but  well  arranged,  and  the  candles  on  the  altar  were 
lighting  at  that  moment.  Gertrude  was  kneeling  by  the  side 
of  her  mother's  arm-chair,  who,  when  she  was  well  enough  to 
leave  her  bed,  heard  mass  from  a  kind  of  tribune  on  one  side 
of  the  altar.  One  look  she  cast  at  the  body  of  the  chapel,  and 
saw,  with  the  emotion  which  a  great  joy  after  a  moment's 
anxiety  produces,  Adrien  kneeling  and  absorbed  in  prayer. 

There  is  something  more  touching  in  a  man's  devotion 
than  in  a  woman's ;  when  it  is  earnest  it  is  so  real,  so  humble, 
and  so  deep.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  light  of  heaven  played 
round  that  noble  head  bowed  down  in  intense  adoration. 
Though  she  was  looking  at  him,  she  knew  that  he  would  not 
look  at  her.  His  spirit  was  soaring  far  above  earthly  thoughts, 
and  she  was  glad  of  it ;  she  had  understood  at  once  in  knowing 
him  what  theologians  mean  by  perfection — a  comparative  term 
after  all — but  a  necessary  one  to  describe  the  angelic  life  which 
some  of  God's  creatures  are  enabled  to  live  on  earth ;  and  a 
glance  from  him  at  that  moment  would  have  disappointed  her 
She  turned  away,  and  prayed  earnestly  herself,  nor  once  looked 
again  from  the  altar.  After  mass,  she  saw  her  mother  com 
fortably  established  on  her  couch,  and  propped  up  by  pillows. 

"  Now,  mamma,  I  will  bring  M.  d'Arberg  to  see  you.     We 
will  come  in  by  the  garden-door  in  the  next  room." 

"  You  must  let  me  rest  for  an  hour,  dear  child,  and  then 
you  may  come." 

"  Very  well,  dearest,  then  I  shall  take  him  to  see  the  house, 
if  he  wishes  it,  for  Father  Lifford  will  not  be  in  the  library  for 


LADY-BIRD.  179 

some  time,  T  know. — Yes,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  went 
slowly  across  the  hall,  "  I  should  like  to  take  him  to  every 
part  of  this  old  house  of  mine  "  (for  the  first  time  she  compla- 
cently called  it  her  house),  "  so  that  the  perfume  of  pleasant 
memories  might  attach  itself  to  every  corner  of  it." 

When  she  opened  the  door  of  the  drawing-room — that 
formal  square  room  with  its  heavy  furniture  and  cheerless  as- 
pect— it  seemed  too  like  a  dream  to  see  Adrien  there.  But 
there  he  was,  and  the  window  where  he  was  standing  was  the 
first  of  the  stations  which  her  fancy  meant  to  cherish.  "  Are 
you  well.  Lady-Bird?"  he  asked  her  kindly  and  warmly.  "  You 
have  not  been  walking  too  much  in  the  day,  or  reading  too  late 
at  night  ? " 

'•  I  shut  up  my  book  every  night  as  the  clock  strikes  twelve." 
she  said.  "  I  am  trying  to  keep  rules ;  it  is  hard  work,  but  I 
hope  there  will  be  method  in  my  madness  at  last." 

"  It  is  madness  to  waste  health,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "  at 
least  without  making  a  good  bargain  with  it, — getting  some- 
thing more  valuable  in  return." 

"  And  information  is  not  that,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  0  no — not  for  its  own  sake.  What  a  very  peculiar  place 
this  is." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  ? "  she  said,  throwing  open  the 
window  out  of  which  they  both  leaned. 

"  I  don't  dislike  it,  but  I  cannot  flatter  you  either  by 
praising  or  abusing  it.  But  tell  me,  is  the  chapel  as  old  as  the 
house  1 " 

"  Not  the  one  that  is  used  now,  but  the  one  upstairs  under 
the  roof,  which  is  now  out  of  repair.  There  is  near  it  one  of 
the  hiding-places  for  the  priests  which  were  used  in  the  days 
of  persecution." 

"  Will  you  show  it  me,  in  return  for  the  stories  of  the  cata- 
combs which  I  told  you  the  other  day  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  will !  "  she  eagerly  exclaimed  ;  and  leading  the 
way  through  long  passages  and  winding  staircases,  continued, 
"  I  had  no  notion  till  I  met  the  other  day  with  a  little  book 
called  'Records  of  Missionary  Priests'  of  the  heroic  lives  and 
deaths  of  these  men.  of  whom  some  may  have  taken  refuge  in 
the  very  place  I  am  going  to  show  you.  These  accounts  are 
quite  sublime,  although — or  rather  perhaps  because — they  are 
so  simply  given.  But,  M.  d'Arberg,  I  cannot  endure  their 
loyalty  to  Queen  Elizabeth  :  it  may  have  been  fine,  but  it  pro- 
vokes me  to  death." 


1 80  LADY-niRD. 

"  You  are  given  to  rebellion.  I  have  perceived  that 
before." 

"  But  you  are  not  surely  for  passive  obedience?  " 

'•  You  must  not  make  me  talk  politics  Jierc.  I  am  afraid 
of  the  ghosts  of  your  ancestors.  But  I  do  admire  from  my 
beart  the  absence  of  party-spirit  in  men  who  died  for  their 
kith,  with  less  of  earthly  stimulus  and  sympathy  than  any 
ither  martyrs  were  ever  cheered  and  supported  by  before.  It 
vras  done  in  the  discharge  of  an  ordinary  duty,  all  in  their 
day's  work ;  and  their  dying  prayers  for  the  Queen  and  the 
country  appear  less  like  great  efforts  of  Christian  virtue,  than 
an  absence  of  bitterness  more  surprising  still.  They  were 
strangers  and  pilgrims;  and  to  be  thrust  aside  from  the  world, 
and  hurried  on  to  eternity,  was  an  injury  which  hardly  excited 
their  resentment." 

"  But  they  gave  up  the  out-posts  too  readily.  They  stip- 
ulated for  nothing  but  the  very  citadel,  and  defended  it  only 
by  dying." 

'•  True,"  he  answered,  "  it  was  an  error,  perhaps,  but  a 
noble  and  not  an  unchristian  one.     Is  this  the  place?" 

"  It  is,"  she  exclaimed,  "  and  we  may  well  call  it  holy 
ground,  for  martyrs  here,  in  Mrs.  Hemans'  words, 

'  Uncheer'd  by  praise 
Have  made  the  offering  of  their  days, 
And  silently  in  fearless  faith 
Pi'epared  their  noble  souls  for  deatL' " 

Adrien  gazed  with  emotion  into  the  dark  recess,  which 
was  usually  concealed  by  a  sliding  panel,  which  gave  no  out- 
ward sign  of  the  existence  of  a  hiding-place  within.  After 
an  instant  he  turned  to  her  and  said,  '•  I  had  often  heard  of 
these  places  of  refuge,  but  had  never  seen  one  before.  Your 
old  house  may  be  gloomy  at  first  sight,  but  it  speaks  more  to 
the  soul  than  Audley  Park."  They  went  down  stairs  again, 
and  sat  upon  the  terrace.  "  Will  you  sit  on  this  bench  while 
go  and  see  if  mamma  is  ready  to  receive  you  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  I  will  walk  up  and  down  here  till  you  come 
back."  In  five  minutes  she  returned  again,  and  led  him 
through  the  little  library  into  Mrs.  Lifford's  room. 

It  was  long  since  her  mother  had  seen  a  stranger ;  and  her 
eheek  was  flushed,  and  her  voice  a  little  tremulous  as  she 
spoke  to  him  in  Spanish,  which  was  familiar  to  him  as  his  own 
tongue.     His  maimer  was  gentle  to   every  one,  but  to  that 


LADY-BIRD.  181 

biuised  and  suffering  being  (and  who  could  look  upon  her,  and 
not  feel  that  such  she  was)  it  was  gentleness  and  tenderness 
itself.  That  niamier,  the  tones  of  his  voice,  the  expression  in 
his  e3'es,  were  inexpressibly  soothing  to  her.  She  had  not 
een  so  addressed  for  years  and  years.  Father  Lifi'ord  waa 
very  kind,  but  he  was  rough  and  abrupt.  Gertrude  had  lat- 
terly been  afi'ectionate  and  attentive,  but  her  high  spirits  and 
impetuous  nature  gave  something  startling  to  her  very  tender- 
ness ;  while  her  husband's  coldness  and  her  son's  formality 
were  in  another  way  depressing.  She  had  been  used  to  some 
thing  so  different  in  her  childhood  and  early  youth.  There 
was  a  sound  in  Adrien's  voice  that  reminded  her  of  Assunta, 
the  sister  she  had  lost.  She  listened  to  him  with  a  pleasure 
she  could  hardly  account  for,  and  he  at  once  won  her  heart. 
"  No  wonder,"  she  thought.  "  that  Gertrude  had  found  him 
charming,  that  he  had  made  her  long  to  be  like  him.  Who 
would  not  admire  that  face? — who  would  not  be  fascinated 
by  that  voice,  won  by  that  perfect  kindness,  swayed  by  those 
speaking  eyes,  subdued  by  that  matchless  nobleness  of  counte- 
nance and  manner  ?  "  Such  were  her  thoughts  as  she  sat 
listening  to  him,  and  now  and  then  addressing  to  him  a  few 
earnest  words.  They  understood  each  other  so  well  He  in 
the  busy  walks  of  life — she  at  her  silent  watch — had  served 
the  same  master,  and  learned  the  same  secrets.  In  her  heart 
there  rose  a  hope,  a  wish,  at  the  strength  of  which  she  was 
alarmed ;  for  she  thought  that  she  had  learnt  that  great  lesson — 
not  to  wish  anything  too  intensely.  But  that  he  should  like 
Gertrude, — that  he  should  in  time  wish  to  marry  her, — was  a 
vision  of  happiness  for  that  beloved  child  that  rose  irrepressi- 
bly  before  her.  Such  a  haven  of  bliss  and  of  safety,  such  a 
shelter  through  the  storms  of  life,  such  an  escape  from  dangers 
that  would  thicken  on  her  path,  in  or  out  of  her  home  ! 

When  Adrien  asked  if  he  might  come  and  see  her  again, 
she  pressed  his  hand,  and  smiled  assent.  Never  had  he  felt 
more  sympathy  for  any  one  than  for  this  pale  suffering  woman. 
Her  eyes  haunted  him,  and  as  Gertrude  led  the  way  back  to 
the  library  he  was  silent  and  thoughtful.  He  turned  to  her 
half  absently,  and  said  something  in  Spanish.  ''  I  don't  un- 
derstand Spanish,"  she  said,  hastily.  "  Not  your  mother's 
tongue,  Lady-Bird  !  Not  that  beautiful  language  whi(-h  she 
speaks  so  eloquently  !  How  is  it  possible  that  you  have  never 
learnt  it."  "  It  does  seem  strange  to  me  now,"  she  answered, 
colouring — and  a  resolution  was  taken  at  that  moment     Not 


182  LADY-BIRD. 

another  day  passed  without  her  apj. lying  herself  with  a  kind 
of  passionate  apj^lication  to  that  study. 

Father  Lifford  now  joined  them.  He  was  not  fond  of 
Frenchmen,  but  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  Adrien  was  as  lit- 
tle of  one  as  possible,  and  he  could  not,  in  spite  of  himself, 
help  liking  him.  They  walked  up  and  down  the  avenue  dis- 
cussing English  politics,  on  which  they  agreed  more  than  about 
those  of  the  Continent.  Gertrude  slipped  into  her  mother's 
room  to  hear  her  say  that  Adrien  was  charming  ;  and  then 
from  her  bed-room  window  she  gazed  on  the  yew-trees,  as  if 
they  had  suddenly  been  illuminated  by  the  most  radiant  sun- 
shine. She  wished  the  day  not  to  advance — she  dreaded  to 
hear  the  luncheon-bell  ring — every  minute  seemed  a  whole 
day  of  enjoyment.  There  was  not  a  gesture  of  Adrien's  that 
she  did  not  watch ;  she  knew  from  which  tree  he  had  plucked 
a  branch,  where  he  had  let  it  fall  from  his  hand,  on  what  bench 
he  had  sat  for  a  moment  and  traced  a  pattern  on  the  sand, 
which  of  the  gamekeeper's  dogs  he  had  caressed  as  it  passed 
him.  and  where  he  had  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  to  gaze 
on  some  distant  point  which  Father  Lifford  was  pointing  out 
to  him.  At  last  the  bell  rang,  and  she  went  down  to  the 
dining-room.  That  table  laid  for  three,  how  often  she  had  sat 
down  to  it  with  a  heart  that  felt  as  hard  and  dull  as  a  stone  ! 
When  Father  Lifford  said  grace,  she  silently  returned  thanks 
that  life  was  no  longer  what  it  had  been  to  her, — thanks 
that  a  ray  had  shone  upon  it,  and  melted  away  the  ice  that 
had  gathered  round  her  heart.  She  was  amused  at  observing 
how  skilfully  Adrien  avoided  those  subjects  on  which  he  and 
Father  Lifford  would  have  been  likely  to  disagree,  and  with 
what  "  Christian  art "  he  sought  to  please  the  old  man  whom 
he  respected 

"  We  are  going  to  vespers  at  Stonehouseleigh,"  Father 
Lifford  said  to  her,  as  they  left  the  dining-room,  "  will  you 
have  the  gamekeeper's  pony  and  ride  there  ?  "  She  had  done 
this  once  or  twice  before,  and  felt  very  grateful  to  him  for 
proposing  it  now.  When  she  was  lifted  on  the  saddle,  and 
gathering  up  the  reins,  slowly  moved  from  the  door,  Adrien 
walking  by  her  side  and  now  and  then  laying  his  hand  on  the 
pony's  mane,  or  brushing  away  with  a  branch  the  flies  that 
were  teasing  him,  she  thought  of  the  day  when,  with  Edgar, 
she  had  left  that  door  for  another  ride,  and  one  which  led  to  con- 
sequences that  made  it  an  epoch  in  her  life.  ''  Don't  you  go 
and  play  us  tricks  again,  Miss  Gertrude,"  Father  Lifford  said 


LADY-BIRD.  183 

to  her  ;  "  mind  your  reins.  Who  knows  but  this  old  creature 
may  take  it  into  its  head  to  rush  off  with  you  somewhere  or 
other,  if  you  leave  it  entirely  to  its  own  inventions."  She 
looked  back  with  a  smile  of  such  sweetness  that  her  whole 
countenance  seemed  changed,  and  the  old  man  muttered  to 
himself,  "  I  believe  the  foolish  mother  was  right  after  all,  and 
that  what  the  child  wanted  was  a  little  happiness." 

"I  had  forgotten  to  give  you  this  note  from  Lady  Clara," 
Adrien  suddenly  said,  and  drew  it  from  his  pocket.  She  read 
it,  and  turning  to  him  her  expressive  eyes,  she  put  it  into  his 
hand.  "  Am  I  to  read  it?  "  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  you  see  she 
wants  mc  to  go  back  to  Audley  Park.      I  think  mamma  would 

let   me  go,   but "     "  But   don't  you  wish    to  go  ?  "     Siie 

looked  at  him  witliout  answering,  as  if  she  were  inwardly 
deliberating.  She  wished  to  guess  his  thoughts,  she  would 
have  given  anything  to  abide  by  his  decision.  But  siie  did  not 
venture  to  ask  for  his  opinion.  She  had  not  yet  any  hope 
that  he  cared  for  her.  The  very  kindness  of  his  manner, 
though  she  felt  happy  in  it,  was  discouraging.  The  love  she 
felt  for  him — for  she  could  not  disguise  from  herself  that  she 
loved  him — was  at  that  stage  of  its  progress  singularly  un- 
mixed with  hope  or  fear.  Its  existence  alone  seemed  enough 
for  her  happiness.  With  a  strange  humility,  she  scarcely 
dared  to  look  for  a  reciprocal  affection  from  one  whom  she 
almost  deified  by  the  silent  worship  of  her  heart.  To  be 
something  to  him,  to  have  reason  to  hope  she  should  some- 
times see  him,  that  he  would  not  altogether  forget  her,  and 
that  he  might  some  day  or  other  know  how  transformed  she 
had  been  in  thoughts,  in  feelings  and  in  conduct,  since  she 
had  known  him,  since  his  mind  had  spoken  to  hers,  since  a 
spark  of  that  fire  which  burnt  in  his  soul  had  animated  hers : — 
this  seemed  enough  for  her  ;  at  least  she  thought  so,  but  it  was 
under  a  sort  of  infatuated  belief  that  he  would  always  be  what 
he  then  was.  The  least  touch  of  jealousy,  the  supposition  or 
the  report  that  he  was  turning  his  thoughts  to  marriage,  that 
he  was  interested  in  any  other  woman  more  than  in  her,  or 
that  he  might  dedicate  himself  to  the  religious  life,  would  all 
at  once  have  opened  her  eyes  and  raised  a  storm  in  her  soul. 

But  there  is  a  lethargy  as  well  as  a  fever  in  happiness  , 
one  often  precedes  the  other,  and  on  this  day  it  seemed  that  as 
long  as  she  could  see  him  and  hear  his  voice,  the  future  was 
nothing,  the  present  all  in  all.  Submission  to  him  seemed  her 
ruling  desire      In  a  nature  so  rebellious  and  proud,  this  waa 


184  LADY-BIRD. 

the  result  of  a  mastering  passion.  But  with  that  artlesa 
artfulness  which  characterised  her,  she  did  what  perhaps  served 
her  purpose  better  than  anything  else.  She  answered  after  a 
pause :  '•  I  should  like  to  go,  but  I  will  ask  Father  Lifford's 
advice.  lie  will  know  what  mamma  would  really  wish." 
Adrien  looked  at  her  more  than  kindly — almost  tenderly — and 
said,  with  his  usual  simplicity  of  manner :  "  I  hope  she  will 
really  wish  you  to  go."  Her  heart  bounded  with  delight 
How  lovely  the  lane  through  which  they  were  passing  at  that 
moment  seemed  to  her ; — how  blue  the  sky  overhead,  how 
sweet  the  clematis  or  the  branch  of  honey-suckle  which,  here 
and  there,  still  remained  in  the  hedges  ; — how  fresh  and  balmy 
the  air  that  caressed  her  cheek. 

At  one  point  of  the  road  there  was  a  fine  view  of  distant 
country,  and  they  stopped  an  instant  to  look  at  it.  He  said 
it  was  like  one  near  his  chateau  in  Normandy,  and,  for  the 
first  time,  he  spoke  a  little  about  his  home.  He  had  not  been 
educated  there,  and  it  was  more  like  a  home  to  his  brother 
who  was  married,  and  lived  in  it  with  his  wife  and  children  ; — • 
every  year  he  spent  some  time  with  them. 

"  And  shall  you  never  fix  yourself  there  1 "  she  asked,  un- 
consciously blushing  as  she  did  so. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  "  but  I  never  make  projects  for  the 
future — not  that  I  think  it  wrong — but  it  does  not  occur  to  me 
to  look  beyond  the  work  of  the  moment  I  like  that  line  in  a 
little  book  I  saw  on  Lady  Clara's  table  the  other  day  ;  '  I  do 
not  ask  to  see  the  distant  scene,  one  step  enough  for  me." 

"  And  I,"  Gertrude  said,  •'  am  always,  or  at  least  always 
was  thinking  of  the  distant  scene,  and  during  many  years 
would  have  liked  to  '  sauter  a  2neds  joints^  the  steps  between 
me  and  it." 

"  But  not  now  ?  "  he  said  inquiringly. 

"  Oh,  not  so  much  now,"  she  answered  hastily,  '•  I  am 
very  willing  to  let  time  go  as  slowly  as  it  pleases  just  at 
present.  But  it  is  apt  to  hurry  when  we  least  wish  it,  and  to 
creep  when  we  would  hasten  it.  Like  this  old  pony,  who 
would  not  go  out  of  a  foot's  pace  last  Sunday,  when  I  wa? 
late,  and  to  day  seems  bent  on  walking  fast,  as  if  on  purpose 
to  tire  you."  After  a  pause  she  said,  "  I  am  almost  surprised 
that  your  present  existence  suits  you." 

"  And  how  do  you  know  it  does  ? " 

"  Because  I  Jo  not  understand  why  you  should  stay  at 
Audley  Park  if  you  did  not  like  it." 


LADY-BIRD.  186 

"  J3ut  wliy  should  you  think  I  do  not?  It  is  very  pleasant 
to  leave  for  a  while  one's  own  particular  way  and  habits,  and 
see  people  who  have  not  looked  upon  things  through  tlie  same 
glasses  as  one's  self.  They  may  be  better  or  worse  spectacles ; 
but  a  peep  through  them  always  shows  one  something  new  or 
useful" 

"  Ay,"  she  said  eagerly,  "  that  is  the  reason,  I  suppose,  that 
some  very  good  people  are  provoking.  I  suppose  it  is  those 
who  have  never  used  but  one  pair  of  spectacles,"  and  her  eyes, 
perhaps  unconsciously,  glanced  at  those  which  Flither  Lifford 
was  at  that  moment  wiping. 

Adrien  smiled  and  said,  '■  Oh,  but  for  use  one  pair  is 
enough,  if  the  glasses  be  good." 

'•  I  should  have  thought  that  the  very  thing  I  like  so  much 
at  Audley  Park  would  have  bored  you, — its  busy  idleness." 
■"  I  think  idle  business  worse." 

"  But  you  are  neither  idly  busy,  nor  busily  idle." 

"  I  hope  not  always ;  but  you  know  the  old  saying,  '  All 
work  and  no  play  nuikcs  Jack  a  dull  boy." 

"  Ay,  but  I  think  your  p/a?/  would  be  of  a  different  kind. 
I  can  understand  your  liking  to  travel,  or  to " 

"  VVell,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  had  not  rather  spend  a  week 
amongst  new  people — if  they  are  at  all  out  of  the  common 
way — than  see  new  places,  though  that  is  amusing  in  its  way, 
too." 

"  But  beautiful  scenery  you  delight  in,  I  am  sure." 

'•That,"  he  answered,  '"is  like  fine  music  in  a  church. 
When  you  get  it.  and  your  mind  is  in  harmony,  it  almost 
amounts  to  ecstacy,  but  there  are  few  places  where  a  similar 
effect  is  not  within  your  reach.  I  doubt  whether  the  Alps  or 
the  Italian  lakes  have  awakened  higher  feelings  of  enjoyment 
than  the  nearest  meadow,  with  buttercups  and  daisies,  near 
London  or  Manchester,  and  I  am  sure  that  a  flower-pot  in  a 
window  has  given  as  much  pleasure  as  the  parterre  at  Audley 
Park." 

'•  Then  I  suppose,"  she  said  in  a  very  low  voice,  "  that  you 
think  a  person  might  be  happy  at  Lifford  Grange?  " 

They  were  just  stopping  at  the  gate  of  the  little  church- 
yard. He  took  the  pony's  mane  in  his  hand  and  did  not 
answer  for  an  instant  or  two.  and  then  said,  with  a  shade  of 
emotion  in  his  voice,  "  Yes,  I  think  so"  She  was  startled, 
not  by  the  words,  but  by  something  in  his  manner.  Was  it 
possible  that  he  was  not  so  calmly  and  so  merely  kind  to  her 


186  LADY-BIRD. 

as  she  had  fancied,  or  was  it  that  he  was  longing  to  tell  hei 
something  of  liis  thoughts  on  happiness,  such  as  he  understood 
it  ?  She  knew  that  there  was  often  that  kind  of  emotion  in 
his  countenance,  when  the  subject  nearest  to  his  heart  waa 
alluded  to,  and  his  eyes — not  his  lips — bore  witness  to  his 
deepest  feelings.  It  might  have  been  one  or  the  other  of 
these  causes,  she  knew  not  which,  and  now  their  walk  was  at 
an  end,  and  she  could  not  investigate  this  point  any  farther. 
While  she  knelt  at  church  by  his  side,  she  once  thought  if 
ever  she  became  his  wife,  how  easy  a  thing  it  would  be  to  be 
good, — how  every  duty  would  be  a  pleasure,  and  life  a  fore- 
taste of  Heaven ;  and  for  the  first  time  she  poured  forth  pas. 
sionate  supplications  that  this  blessing  might  be  vouchsafed 
to  her,  but  they  too  much  resembled  in  their  spirit  the  prayer 
of  Hachel,  when  she  exclaimed,  "  Give  me  children  or  else  1 
die  I  "  There  is  something  fearful  in  such  prayers,  and  when 
they  are  heard,  and  the  hand  grasps  what  it  has  wildly  sought, 
then  is  the  time  to  tremble. 

When  they  came  out  of  the  chapel,  and  Father  LiflFord 
was  still  in  the  sacristy.  Gertrude  sat  down  on  her  old  favourite 
seat  near  the  gate,  and  Adrien  took  leave  of  her ;  the  post- 
chaise  had  been  sent  to  meet  him  there.  "  Then  I  shall  tell 
Lady  Clara  that  you  will  send  an  answer.  I  hope  it  will  be 
to  say  that  you  will  come  ;  but  anyhow  I  shall  see  you  again 
before  I  go  to  Ireland, — that  is,  if  I  may  do  next  Sunday  as 
to-day."  She  was  looking  her  assent  to  those  last  words,  when 
tlie  organist  passed  them.  He  hurried  by  without  speaking, 
but  Adrien  called  out,  "  Halloa,  Maurice,  are  you  here?  I 
might  have  guessed  that  nobody  but  you  would  have  played 
that  voluntary  just  now  in  this  small  place.  Are  you  going 
back  to  Audley  Park  ?  I  can  give  yovi  a  lift."  "  Thank  you," 
said  Maurice,  with  a  singular  smile.  "  You  have  givetn  me 
many  through  life  ;"  and  then  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  and 
much  good  they  have  done  me."  Then  passing  his  hand  over 
his  forehead,  he  approached  Gertrude,  who  shook  hands  with 
him.  The  coldness  of  his  hands  struck  her,  and  the  dim  look 
of  his  eyes. 

'•  I  am  going  to  sleep  at  home  to-night,"  he  said,  "  but  to- 
morrow I  return  to  Liffbrd  Grange — I  mean  to  Audley  Park.' 

"  Here  is  Mary  !"  Gertrude  exclaimed.  "  M.  d'Arberg, 
you  ought  to  know  her,  and  her  mother,  Mrs.  Redmond." 
She  went  up  to  them,  and  Adrien  followed  her.  Maurice 
stood  at  a  little  distance  whilst  they  spoke  tog'sther. 


LADV-BIRD.  IQ'J 

"  Yes,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  it  must  be  so,  and  fool  that  I 
am  to  mind  it.  Did  I  ever  think  she  could  be  mine  ?  Would 
I,  if  I  could.  fr'iYQ  up  Mary  ?  Would  I  be  false  to  the  dearest 
and  holiest  affections  of  my  childliood  and  my  youth?  Did  1 
not  snatch  her  hand  last  night,  and  imprint  a  thousand  kisses 
upon  it  ?  Did  I  not  again  speak  of  our  marriage  ?  What  a 
brute  I  am  not  to  feel  always  as  I  did  then  !  Is  my  hand 
such  a  rich  gift  that  I  should  give  it  her  without  my  heart? 
But  my  heart  is  hers.  Yes,  all  that  deserves  to  be  called 
heart !  0,  Lady-Bird,  Lady-Bird  !  I  could  almost  curse  you 
for  standing  between  me  and  duty,  and  happiness,  and  Heaven 
also.  For  but  now,  in  church,  to  see  her  kneeling  by  d'Ar- 
berg's  side  drove  devotion  away,  and  awoke  the  worst  feelings 
in  my  breast.  Curse  her  !  Do  men  curse  what  they  adore  ? 
I  don't  know ;  all  I  know  is,  that  if  she  ever  speaks  to  me 
again  with  that  smile  of  hers, — if  she  expects  me  to  talk  to 
her  of  Mary  as  if  she  were  not  Mary's  worst  enemy,  I  may  tell 
her  something  of  my  sufferings,  and  if  that  is  to  insult  her, 
let  her  complain  to  d'Arberg,  and  make  him  turn  my  enemy 
too.  Fool — idiot — that  I  was  to  be  always  talking  to  her 
about  him  !  Could  I  suppose  she  would  see  him,  and  not  love 
him?     Oh,  that  he  may  make  her  suffer  what  I  suffer  !" 

As  he  mentally  expressed  this  wish,  his  eyes  accidentally 
fixed  themselves  on  the  cross,  near  which  he  was  standing, 
and  he  was  struck  to  the  heart  with  that  silent  lesson.  Ho 
went  into  the  church,  and  burying  his  face  in  his  hands,  re- 
mained there  a  while.  Perhaps,  during  those  few  moments 
of  silence  and  of  meditation,  he  had  a  glimpse  into  his  own 
real  feelings ;  he  saw  for  an  instant  the  utter  selfishness,  the 
heartless  ingratitude  of  his  conduct ;  a  transient  repentance 
passed  over  the  surface  of  his  mind,  and  when  Mary  softly  went 
up  to  him  and  whispered ;  "  Mother  is  waiting,"  he  raised 
his  head,  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  saw  that  he 
had  been  weeping,  and  he  was  surprised  at  her  suddenly  stop- 
ping and  wringing  her  hands,  as  if  she  could  hardly  struggle 
any  longer  with  some  intense  anxiety.  '"Mary?"  he  said, 
with  a  kind  of  inc^uiring  expostulation.  "  I  cannot  endure 
/7za/,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "  anything  but  that,  when  I  know 

."       She  stopped,  and    her    manner   changed.       "  Come, 

make  haste,  dear  boy — we  shall  be  late  for  tea,  and  I  can  en- 
,  dure  anything  but  ?/i«/,"  she  repeated  gaily,  putting  her  arm 
in  his,  and  holding  out  the  other  to  her  mother.  They  went 
home  together,  and  he  appeared  calmer  and  happier  that 
evening  than  he  had  done  for  a  long  time. 


188  LADY-BIRD. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"He  that  but  fears  the  thing  he  would  not  know 
Hath  by  instinct  knowleclgc  from  otlier's  eyes 
That  wliat  he  feared  is  chanced." 

SHAKESPEiEK. 

"The  love  that  follows  us  sometimes  is  our  trouble, 
Which  still  vce  praise  as  love." 

Tbid. 

"  Happy  and  worthy  of  esteem  are  those 
Whose  words  are  bonds,  whose  oatns  are  oracleR, 
Whose  love  sincere,  whose  thousrhts  immaculate ; 
Whose  tears  pure,  messengers  sent  from  the  heart, 
Whose  heart  as  far  from  fraud  as  Heaven  from  earth." 

Ibid. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  week,  Gertrude  returned  to  Audley 
Park.  Her  mother  had  readily  yielded  her  assent  to  the  re- 
quest contained  in  Lady  Clara's  note ;  and  although  Father 
Lifford  had  growled  a  little  about  it.  he  did  not  on  the  whole 
object.  He  said  that  he  supposed  foolish  people  must  please 
themselves,  which  they  well  knew  was  his  way  of  withdrawing 
from  active  opposition.  It  was  therefore  with  a  light  heart 
and  a  radiant  countenance  that  Gertrude  set  out  for  Audley 
Park,  looked  again  upon  its  brightness,  and  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room which  had  bcou  the  scene  of  so  much  enjoyment,  and 
where  she  was  now  most  affectionately  received. 

Lady  Clara  kissed  her,  Lady  Roslyn  smiled,  and  Mr. 
Latimer  exclaimed,  in  the  words  of  Maurice's  song: 

"Come,  Lady- Bird,  come  rest  you  Lore, 
O  do  not  fly  away." 

"  We  caught  her  the  first  time,"  Lady  Clara  said ;  "  now 
she  has  returned  of  her  own  accord." 

"  D'Arberg."  said  Mr.  Latimer,  '-could  not  tell  us  whether 
you  were  coming  or  not.  We  all  longed  to  fly  to  Lifford 
Grange  yesterday  in  that  yellow  post-chaise,  which  bore  him 
off  at  an  early  hour.  You  cannot  think  how  we  have  missed 
you.  Lady  Clara  has  been  quite  depressed,  Lady  Roslyn 
cross,  Mrs.  Crofton  melancholy,  poor  Mark  on  the  point  of 
hanging  himself  and " 

"You,  Mr    Latimer?" 

"  0  I, — I  sent  for  arsenic  yesterday,  and  had  you  not  re- 
turned   to-day   there    would    have    been    a   coroner's   inquest 


LADY-BIRD.  189 

to-raorrow.     I  can't  eat  at  dinner,  the  Miss  Apleys  talk  to  me 
so  much." 

"  That  is  a  hint." 

"  No,  Lady-Bird  your  warblings  help  digestion.  By  the 
way,  Lady  Chxra,  I  hope  the  magnetiser  is  coming  here  again. 
She  ought  to  know  him." 

"  He  said  he  would  dine  here  on  Wednesday." 

"  We  had  great  fun  the  other  night.  He  sent  Miss  Apley 
fast  asleep,  and  put  Fanny,  on  the  contrary,  in  such  a  state  of 
excitement  that  she  talked  the  most  charming  nonsense.  He 
is  to  tell  us  a  great  deal  about  clairvoyance  the  next  time  he 
comes." 

"  I  have  often  heard  Mesmerism  spoken  of,"  Gertrude  said, 
"  but  have  never  seen  it  practised." 

"  0  then,  Mr.  Edwards  shall  devote  himself  to  you  on 
Wednesday." 

"  What  nonsense  d'Arberg  talked  about  it.  Not  safe  to 
have  any  tiling  to  do  with  it !  I  should  have  thought  him  a 
more  sensible  man.  I  really  think  he  believes  in  witch- 
craft." 

"  0  no,  he  does  not." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — he  said  he  could  not  see  how  one 
could  explain  away  what  was  said  in  the  Bible  about  it." 

"  And  do  you?  "  Gertrude  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,  I  never  tried." 

"  Then  you  disbelieve  without  examining,"  Lady  Clara 
said  ;  "  that  is  hardly  philosophical.  M.  d'Arberg  was  not  at 
all  dogmatical  about.it." 

"  You  always  stand  up  for  him.  Lady  Clara." 

"  But  I  do  not  set  down  any  one  else — not  even  you, 
which  I  own  would  be  difficult."  He  laughed  and  said: 
"  And  I  own  that  you  are  the  best  natured  person  in  the 
world  ; — I  never  heard  you  run  down  any  one." 

"  It  is  so  fatiguing,"  she  said  with  a  pretty  little  yawn  (if 
such  a  thing  can  be  pretty).  '•  I  have  not  Mrs.  Crofton's 
energy." 

"  Malicious  humility  !"  he  exclaimed, — "  Admirable  lazi- 
ness ! — the  merit  of  virtue  and  the  charm  of  vice.  I  like  to 
sec  you  idly  reclining  in  your  arm-chair,  letting  the  stitches  drop 
from  your  work,  with  the  same  elltrming  indolence  with  which 
you  spare  the  reputations  of  your  neighbours.  And  have  you 
missed  «s,  Lady-Bird  ? "  he  continued,  "  have  you  in  the 
ehades  of  Lifford  Grange  given  one  thought  to  those  yo'i  left 


190  LADY  BIRD. 

behind?  I  h<td  ?ome  thoughts  of  disguising  myself  as  a 
sailor,  or  a  tramper,  and  laying  wait  for  you  in  some  of  those 
dark  thickets  near  the  Leigh  ;  but  there  is  a  story  in  the 
neighbourhood  that  your  father  keeps  bulls  in  his  park,  and  I 
was  afraid  of  being  tossed  in  your  presence, — not  by  conflict- 
ing feelings  alone,  but  by  the  horns  of  one  of  those  domestic 
favourites."  She  laughed  and  denied  the  report,  and  soon 
after  went  to  dress. 

She  found  herself  sitting  at  dinner  that  day  between  Sir 
William  Marlow,  and  Mr.  Egerton,  Lady  Clara's  brother. 
The  former  did  not  like  her  at  all.  In  the  first  place,  he  had 
rather  an  instinctive  dislike  of  clever  people ;  though  very 
clever  himself  in  some  ways,  he  was  slow  at  entering  into  any- 
thing like  humour  ;  and  was  provoked  to  death  that  Ger- 
trude's pointless  remarks,  as  he  considered  them,  made  people 
laugh,  and  turned  away  their  attention  from  himself.  Her 
other  neighbour  had  not  yet  made  much  acquaintance  with 
her.  but  this  time  they  got  on  very  well.  It  would  have  been 
difficult  not  to  like  him,  he  was  so  pleasing,  intelligent,  and 
agreeable.  That  day,  in  the  course  of  conversation  they  happen- 
ed to  talk  of  emigration  ;  and  amongst  other  things  he  informed 
her  that  Adrien  was  deeply  interested  in  the  subject,  and  had 
organized  the  plan  of  a  settlement  in  America,  to  which  he 
had  sent  a  great  number  of  the  poor  Irish  in  London,  and 
which  promised  to  succeed  very  well. 

"  I  admire  him  so  much,"  he  said,  "  and  could  like  him 
better  than  almost  anybody.  But  I  can  never  get  on  quite 
satisfactorily  with  him.  and  I  think  he  has  some  very  overstrained 
notions.  I  like  people  to  be  as  happy  as  possible,  and  I  have 
almost  as  much  horror  of  their  tormenting  themselves,  as  of 
their  tormenting  others." 

"  But  you  do  not  think  him  a  self-tormentor,  do  you?  He 
seems  to  me  a  particularly  happy  person." 

"  But  I  do  not  like  his  way  of  being  happy.  Perhaps  be- 
cause I  could  not  find  pleasure  in  it  myself.  I  think  him  too  in- 
different to  some  things,  and  too  much  engrossed  by  others. 
He  is  not  practical  enough." 

"  That  is  a  word  I  do  not  quite  undei'stand.  Do  you  mean 
that  he  does  not  himself  act  up  to  his  theories?  " 

"  No  ;  but  that  his  theories  are  not  generally  reducible  to 
practice,  and  are  therefore  unsuited  to  the  world  we  live  in." 

"  But  is  not  the  very  condition  of  the  world  a  struggle? 
Virtue  will  never  altogether  prevail  in  it,  and  yet  you  would 


LADY'BIRD  191 

not  on  that  account  cease  from  the  contest  which  it  carries  on 

against  vice  ?  " 

"  I  would  act  as  well  as  I  could  myself,  but  not  aim  at  a 
visionary  perfection." 

"  No,  not  at  a  visionary  one  ;  but  would  you  not,  or  at 
least  can  you  not  understand  that  a  person  should  aim  at  the 
highest  perfection  possible  ?  " 

•'  I  think  that  in  aiming  too  high,  people  often  fall  lower 
than  they  would  otherwise  have  done." 

"  Do  you  think  he  does  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  said  before  that  I  admire  him  very  much,  but  1 
fancy  he  could  be  much  more  useful  in  his  generation  if  he 
were  more  like  other  people." 

"  But  he  neither  lays  down  the  law,  nor  dictates  to  others  ; 
nor  is  there  an  assumption  of  superiority  in  his  manner.  I 
thought  I  heard  you  say  the  other  day  that  his  manner  was 
singularly  unpretending." 

"  So  it  is  ;  and  I  know  nobody  who,  in  proportion  to  his 
talents,  has  so  humble  an  opinion  of  himself;  but  what  I 
mean  is,  that  one  is  always  conscious  that  he  measures  every- 
thing by  a  standard  not  adapted  to  the  world  in  its  present 
state,  and  thus  his  efibrts  overshoot  the  mark,  and  so  he 
misses  his  aim." 

"  But  perhaps  you  do  not  quite  know  what  his  aim  is?  " 

Mr.  Egerton  smiled,  and  Sir  William  Marlow  said,  "  I 
always  regret  to  see  so  remarkable  an  int(;llect  hemmed  in  by 
such  narrow  boundaries." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  what  you  take  for  boundaries  are 
not  roads,"  she  said,  "  leading  to  regions  you  have  never  ex- 
plored ?  "  He  looked  at  her  in  a  manner  that  setmed  to  say 
he  had  explored  everything.  "  Besides,"  she  continued,  "  a 
fortress  has  boundaries,  a  fruitful  garden  has  walls ;  it  is  de- 
serts and  swamps  that  have  no  defined  limits." 

"  I  prefer  the  Alps,"  he  ejaculated,  '•  to  a  French  garden  !  " 
and  then  turned  away  with  a  lofty  contempt — himself  a  little 
Alp  in  his  own  esteem. 

"  I  think  d'Arberg  has  bit  you  with  some  of  his  notions," 
Mr.  Egerton  said  good-humouredly. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  answered,  and  thought  of  Wilberforce'a 
answer  to  a  lady  who  told  him  that  Whitfield  was  mad : — "  In 
that  case,"  he  said,  "  I  only  wish  he  may  bite  us  all," — and 
then  went  on  to  reflect  on  the  extraordinary  manner  in  which 
persons  who  view  certain  subjects  through  different  mediuma 


1 92  LADV-DIRD. 

are  impressed  in  a  totally  opposite  way  by  the  actions  and  the 
conduct  of  others.  The  very  same  line  of  conduct  which  ex- 
cites admiration  in  one  case,  inspiring  only  astonishment,  if 
not  aversion  in  another.  Perhaps  a  short  time  ago  the  want 
of  sympathy  between  herself  and  her  two  neighbours  would 
not  have  struck  her  in  the  same  degree,  and  the  absence  of 
worldliness,  which  she  so  well  appreciated  in  d' Arberg,  in  Mary 
Grey  for  instance  might  have  appeared  to  her  unreasonable; 
but  she  did  not  analyse  her  own  sentiments  narrowly,  and  was 
well  satisfied  with  the  consciousness  that  she  alone  out  of  that 
numerous  society  understood  the  principles  as  well  as  shared 
the  feelings  of  Adrien. 

That  day  and  the  next,  she  had  but  little  conversation 
with  him,  but  she  thought  he  watched  her,  and  on  one  or  two 
occasions  she  asked  his  advice  about  little  things  that  she  was 
in  doubt  whether  to  do  or  not :  there  was  not  the  least  coquetry 
in  this.  She  showed  him,  as  plainly  as  a  woman's  dignity 
would  permit,  that  she  had  but  one  wish,  and  that  was  not  so 
much  to  captivate  him.  as  to  make  herself  what  he  would  ap- 
prove. It  would  have  been  impossible  for  any  man  not  to  be 
touched  by  this  tacit  homage.  This  singleness  of  purpose 
and  simplicity  of  action  did  not  naturally  belong  to  her  char- 
acter, but  to  the  intensity  of  the  passion  which  had  taken  pos- 
session of  her  heart.  She  was  like  Juliet  in  her  love,  and  the 
contrast  between  her  utter  artl-essness  with  respect  to  it  and 
her  general  subtlety  of  intellect  and  reserve  of  character  was 
singular  and  attractive.  He  began  to  ask  himself  if  he  loved 
her? — if  he  ought  to  marry? — if  she  were  in  reality  all  she 
seemed  to  him  to  be  ? — and  though  he  talked  to  her  less  than 
during  her  first  visit  to  Audley  Park,  his  manner  began  to 
show  an  interest  which  he  struggled  not  to  mark  too  plainly. 
Gertrude  felt  it,  and  wiih  a  sort  of  instinct  seemed  anxious 
not  to  hurry  into  premature  development,  or  draw  the  attention 
of  others  to  that  delicate  blossom  of  happiness  which  she 
watched  day  by  day  unfolding,  and  on  which  she  fearfully 
staked  every  hope  for  her  life,  for  her  mind — I  had  almost  said 
for  her  soul,  whose  new-born  virtues  were  only  the  reflection  of 
his.  She  had  not  gone  with  him  to  the  soui-ce  whence  he 
drank,  she  had  only  caught  the  drops  as  they  fell  from  his 
cup :  he  did  not  see  this,  and  in  his  admiration  of  the  fruit,  he 
saw  not  or  could  not  see  that  tlie  roots  had  not  struck  deep 
into  the  soil.  Her  rare  intelligence  and  noble  sentiments 
answered  to  his  aspirations  and  he  began  to  think  her  beauty 


I 


LADY-BIRD.  193 

was  tlie  least  of  her  merits,  and  to  find  a  fresh  stimulus  in  her 
society  towards  everything  great  and  good.  It  was  a  beautiful 
thing,  the  love  of  those  two  beings,  both  so  handsome  and  so 
highly-gifted,  and  looking  formed — 

"  He  for  God  only  ;  she  for  God  in  him." 

Others  began  to  take  notice  of  this  growing  attachment. 
Mark  was  disappointed,  but — amiable  as  he  always  was — only 
congratulated  himself  on  not  having  proposed  to  Gertrude, 
and  consoled  himself  with  the  reflection  that  she  was,  perhaps, 
too  clever  for  the  ordinary  purposes  of  life,  and  that 

"There  were  maidens  in  [England]  more  lovely  by  far" 

that  would  gladly  wed  the  heir  to  so  many  acres  and  the  future 
possessor  of  Woodlands  Hall.  Maurice  was  not  the  last  to 
become  conscious  of  the  interest  with  which  Adrien  had  in- 
spired her  whom  he  watched  with  unremitting  tliough  hopeless 
anxiety  ;  but  his  calm  and  self-collected  manner  of  addressing  her, 
the  caution  with  which  he  avoided  any  appearance  of  exclusive 
devotion  to  one  whom  he  had  not  yet  resolved  to  marry,  were 
so  diflerent  from  what  Maurice's  own  conduct  would  have 
been  in  his  position,  that  it  kept  up  in  him  the  hope  that 
d'Arberg  had  no  such  intentions,  and  that  in  her  undisguised 
admiration  for  him  there  was  more  enthusiasm  for  his  charac- 
ter and  talents  than  affection  for  his  person.  And  yet,  when 
he  saw  her  eyes  turned  upon  him  with  that  bewitching  expres- 
sion which  he  had  once  described  as  so  fearfully  attractive  to 
him,  the  sudden  pain  that  shot  through  his  heart  was  almost 
greater  than  he  could  bear.  He  often  made  resolutions  to  de- 
part the  next  day,  but  when  the  morrow  came  he  found  some 
excuse  for  remaining,  and  indulging  the  fatal  pleasure  of  see- 
ing her,  embittered  as  it  was  by  torments  of  jealousy. 

One  day  she  was  sitting  in  the  conservatory  drawing  an 
American  flower,  and  intently  busy  upon  it,  when  he  came 
in  with  a  letter  in  his  hand,  and  sat  down  at  a  little  distance 
from  her.  She  made  some  trifling  remark  about  the  weather, 
without  raising  her  head,  and  after  an  instant's  silence  he  be- 
gan, 

'■•  I  wish  to  ask  your  advice,  Lady-Bird  :  I  have  had  a  let- 
ter from  Mary,  which  disturbs  me  much,  and  I  think  you, 
better  than  anybody,  would  understand  my  feelings  and  counsel 
me  how  to  act."  Gertrude  was  struck  by  the  hollow  nervous  tona 

13 


]  94  J.ADY-BIRD. 

of  his  voice,  and  said  kindly — "  I  will  do  my  best,  my  dear 
Maurice,  but  how  should  I  know  how  to  advise  others,  I  who 
am  hardly  wise  enough  to  guide  myself?  "  '"  First  read  that 
letter,"  he  said.     She  took  it,  and  it  was  as  follows : — 

"  Dearest  Maurice — I  have  been  often  wishing  to  saj 
what  I  now  write,  but  lately  courage  has  failed  me  to  do  so, 
and  during  the  short  moments  we  have  occasionally  spent  to- 
gether, you  have  looked  so  ill  and  unhappy  that  I  did  not 
know  how  to  begin  talking  of  anything  that  might  distress 
you.  But  now  my  mind  is  made  up,  and  writing  will  be  easier 
than  speaking.  I  think  you  must  guess  what  I  am  about  to 
say — you  must  give  up  the  idea  of  marrying  me.  It  has  all 
been  a  mistake  from  the  beginning.  We  have  loved  each 
other  dearly — how  dearly  God  only  knows,  and  I  love  you,  if 
possible,  more  than  ever.  But  I  feel  now  that  it  does  not  an- 
swer for  two  persons  who  have  been  brought  up  together  from 
infancy  and  lived  like  brother  and  sister  to  fancy,  when  grown 
up.  that  they  love  each  other  in  a  different  way.  I  believe 
it  is  the  mistake  we  made  upon  this  point  that  has  caused  your 
misery.  I  saw  this  a  good  while  ago,  but  I  had  many  reasons 
for  not  saying  so,  some  selfish  ones  doubtless,  but  also  others 
for  your  sake.  I  hoped  to  save  you  from  giving  yourself  up 
to  a  feeling  that  will  make  you  miserable  if  you  indulge  it. 
It  is  so  dreadful  to  love  and  not  to  be  loved.  It  is  so  bad  for 
a  man  to  spend  his  time  in  sighs  and  tears  ;  it  does  not  signify 
so  much  for  a  woman  ;  and  if  you  could  have  loved  me — I  mean 
if  I  could  have  kept  you  from  loving  that  other  one  I  was 
speaking  of,  it  would  have  been  for  yonr  happiness.  With 
that  hope  I  stood  between  you  and  her  till  my  heart  was 
ready  to  break,  but  I  can  see  that  your  suffering  is  greater 
than  ever,  though  you  struggle  to  hide  it.  This  is  worse  than 
anything  else.  If  the  conscience  is  at  rest  the  heart  can  bear 
its  burden,  however  heavy  it  may  be.  But  if  not,  strength 
and  patience  fail.  Now,  I  will  make  your  conscience  easy — 
I  release  you  from  your  engagement  to  me ;  your  love  shall 
be  as  free  as  air,  but,  if  it  be  still  possible,  abstain  from  lov- 
ing her.  If  that  is  beyond  your  power,  then  love  her  silently, 
hopelessly,  but  without  remorse,  that  is,  till  she  marries  ano- 
ther. I  can  fancy  that  you  v/ill  be  much  happier,  at  least  for 
a  while  after  getting  this  letter.  I  am,  I  assure  you,  after 
writing  it.     Ever,  dearest  Maurice,  your  affectionate 

"  Mary." 


I 


LADY-BinO.  195 

Gfirtrude  felt  considerably  embarrassed  and  annoyed  as 
she  read  this  letter.  She  had  almost  forgotten  till  then  that 
at  one  moment  she  had  amused  herself  with  the  idea  that 
Maurice  admired  her,  and  even  now — probably  because  she 
did  not  wish  it — she  would  not  admit  to  herself  that  Mary 
alluded  to  her.  If  it  were  so  he  would  be  acting  most 
strangely  in  asking  her  advice,  and  she  determined  not  to 
allow  him  to  suppose  that  she  thought  that  possible.  Her 
manner  was  cold,  however,  as  she  returned  the  letter  to  him, 
and  said :  "  It  is  a  very  touching  lette'r.  I  am  sorry  for  her, 
and  still  more  for  you,  that  she  had  occasion  to  write  it." 

"What  can  I  do?"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground.  "  I  love  Mary  with  all  the  strength  of  my  will.  I 
would  die  for  her,  but  ought  I  to  deceive  her — if  even  I  could 
— and  when  she  has  read  my  heart,  try  to  persuade  her  she  is 
wrong  ?  " 

"  Is  she  right,  then  ? "  Gertrude  asked  still  in  the  same 
cold  manner. 

'•  There  is  a  passion  in  my  heart,"  he  said  between  his 
teeth,  "  that  is  killing  me  by  inches,  that  leaves  me  no  repose 
either  by  day  or  by  night,  that  is  merciless  like  revenge  and 
tenacious  as  life,  that  robs  me  of  Mary  and  gives  me  nothing 
hut  despair  instead.  Is  a  man  guilty  for  suffering?  Would 
he  choose  to  be  wretched  ?  Is  he  to  be  broken  on  the  wheel, 
and  then  reproached  for  his  agonies !  "  His  voice  quivered, 
and  she  looked  up.  He  could  not  meet  her  eyes,  but  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands.  He  felt  as  if  she  would  never  speak  to 
him  again  if  he  gave  her  too  clear  an  insight  into  his  heart. 
With  the  courage  of  despair  he  looked  at  lior,and  murmured: 
"  In  Italy  I  loved  her  ! " 

"  In  Italy  ! "  she  exclaimed,  and  then  thought  of  the 
verses  that  she  had  once  imagined  must  have  been  addressed 
to  herself,  and  now  felt  greatly  relieved  that  it  was  otherwise. 
"  But,  Maurice,  then  why  renew  your  engngcment  with  Mary 
when  you  returned  to  England,  if  you  loved  another?  " 

"  I  did  not  know  my  own  feelings  then.  Mary  is  right;  I 
have  struggled  with  my  conscience  till  I  am  almost  worn  out, 
and  her  letter  has  aggravated  instead  of  relieving  my  doubts. 
Tell  me  how  to  act — your  words  shall  rule  my  destiny." 

"  But  I  do  not  quite  understand  how  the  case  stands,"  she 
said.     "  This  Italian  whom  you  love " 

"  Not  an  Italian,"  he  abruptly  interrupted. 

"  Well,  but  her  whom  you  loved  in  Italy — in  what  poeition 
of  life  is  she  ?  " 


106  LADF-BIRD. 


"  Far,  far  abive  me." 

"  Too  much  so  for  the  possibility  of  a  marriage  between 
you  ?  " 

"  Who  can  say  what  is  possible  or  impossible,  in  that 
respect? " 

"  True,"  she  answered  thoughtfully,  "  but  have  you  any 
reason  to  think  that  she  likes  you?  " 

"  No — only  the  belief  that  there  is  a  love  so  ardent  and  so 
patient  as  to  win  back  love  at  last." 

"  And  when  you  are  with  Mary,  the  image  of  this  person 
haunts  you,  and  stands  like  a  cloud  between  you  and  her, 
turning  what  should  be  happiness  into  grief?  " 

"  Like  the  form  of  an  angel  it  stands  between  us,  but  like 
the  angel  tliat  stood  at  the  gate  of  Paradise  with  a  flaming 
sword  in  his  hand." 

''  Could  you  not  by  a  strong  resolution  tear  this  passion 
from  your  heart?  Could  you  not  drive  it  away  by  an  act  of 
your  will?  and  is  not  your  affection  for  Mary — your  affianced 
Tvife — strong  enough  to  banish  that  dangerous  vision,  till,  with 
time,  in  the  sunshine  of  home  and  the  atmosphere  of  duty,  it 
shall  no  longer  haunt  you,  and  shall  become  not  a  dream  but 
the  mere  shadow  of  a  dream  ?  Coiu)t  the  cost  of  such  a  sacri- 
fice, and  throw  into  the  scale  its  reward.  Have  you  strength 
for  this?" 

"  I  have  strength  to  sliut  up  in  my  heart  the  secret  of  my 
misery,  to  hide  it  from  every  eye  but  Mary's,  wliich  has  read 
into  its  inmost  recess,  to  look  upon  the  face  that  has  been  '  the 
bane  of  my  life,  the  ruin  of  my  glory,'  and  not  by  a  glance  or 
a  sigh  to  betray  what  I  suffer.  All  this  I  can  do,  for  I  have 
done  it  already  ;  and  I  can  stand  at  the  altar  by  Mary's  side, 
and  pledge  my  faith  to  her,  and  never,  so  help  me  God,  injure 
or  desert  her,  but  I  dare  not  say — I  dare  not  hope — that  i)i 
my  home  and  in  my  walks,  by  our  bed  and  at  our  table,  that 
same  vision  will  not  stand,  then  no  more  as  a  stern  angel 
shutting  up  the  path  to  happiness,  but  as  a  fiend  that  will 
tempt  to  sin  and  to  despair.  Can  you  understand  such  a  lovo 
or  such  madness  as  this '?  One  only  favour  I  implore, — that 
you  will  direct  my  course.  Do  not  refuse  it  to  one  whoso 
wretchedness  deserves  pity  at  your  hands  ! " 

"It  is  a  dreadful  thing,  Maurice,  to  love  as  you  love,  and 
to  love  hopelessly.  Heaven  help  all  those  who  may  ever  love 
thus !  I  believe  Mary  is  right ;  even  more  right  than  she 
knows.     You  must  not  marry  her.     You  must  not  place  the 


LADY-EIRD.  197 

sacred  barrier  of  duty  between  yourself  and  the  passion,  ■wliich, 
tremendous  as  it  is,  is  not  yet  guilty.  That  barrier  must  not 
be  rashly  exposed  to  so  powerful  a  torrent.  Better  that  it 
should  sever  you  from  her  now  than  sweep  you  both  into  an 
abyss  hereafter.  1  ask  myself  what  I  should  do  in  your  place? 
Is  the  object  of  your  love  worthy  of  such  a  passion  ?  Do  you 
respect  her,  Maurice,  as  much  as  you  adore  her  1 " 

"I  do  ! "  he  fervently  exclaimed,  putting  his  hand  to  hia 
heart,  as  if  to  still  its  beating. 

"  Then,"  she  continued,  with  excitement. — "  then  continue 
to  love  her,  as  Mary  bids  you,  without  remorse  and  without 
fear.  Practise  every  virtue  for  the  love  of  her,  exert  every 
talent  you  possess  for  her  sake,  and  bide  your  time  with  as 
much  courage  as  you  can  find  in  yourself  Nothing  is  hope- 
less, nothing  is  impossible,  as  you  said  just  now.  Tliere  is  a 
strange  ])ower  in  a  noble  affection  ;  there  is  a  mighty  strength 
in  an  unselfish  devotion.  Never  put  a  voluntary  obstacle  be- 
tween yourself  and  her  you  love  ;  and,  as  I  said  before,  Heaven 
help  all  who  want  help  and  strength  ! — and  who  do  not,  Mau- 
rice?" 

He  stood  silent  an  instant,  looking  very  pale  and  nervous, 
then  suddenly  threw  himself  at  her  feet,  kissed  the  hem  of 
her  dress  with  passionate  fervour,  and  rushed  out  of  the  con- 
servatory. He,  as  be  stood  alone  under  a  tree  in  the  slirub- 
bery,  where  he  had  taken  refuge  in  the  height  of  his  emotion, 
she  at  the  place  where  he  had  left  her.  were  both  asking  them- 
selves a  similar  question  :  had  they  understood  or  misunder- 
stood one  another  ?  "  Had  she  believed  his  evasive  statement  ? " 
he  said  to  himself,  "  and  really  thought  he  loved  a  stranger?  " 
Did  she  not  rather  read  at  once  the  secret  of  his  heart,  and 
had  not  those  exciting  words  she  had  addressed  to  him  been  the 
only  encouragement  she  could  venture  to  give  to  his  almost 
explicit  avowal^of  passionate  affection  ?  And  Gertrude,  who, 
strange  as  it  may  appear,  had  been  deceived  at  first  by  hia 
subterfuge,  could  she  doubt,  after  the  strange  revelation  of 
that  scene,  that  she  was  herself  the  object  of  that  wild  adora- 
tion which  had  so  long  been  struggled  with  and  never  sub- 
dued ?  And  if  so,  what  encouragement  her  words  must  have 
seemed  to  give  him,  and  yet  how  could  she  recur  to  the  sub- 
ject and  retract  her  advice?  This  harassed  her  a  little,  but 
at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  was  touched  at  having  inspired 
such  a  feeling,  and  thought  kindly  of  Maurice  as  of  one  who 
loved  not  wisely  but  too  well.     She  was  sorry  for  Mary  also, 


1 .  6  LADY-BIRD. 

but  it  was  not  perhaps  in  her  nature  to  sympathise  with  the 
trials  of  a  character  so  diiFerent  from  her  own.  She  pitied 
him  much — the  most  of  the  two.  "  Adrian,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, "  would  never  love  her  in  that  way  ;  he  never  would  adore 
her."  But  one  kind  glance  of  his  eye,  one  of  those  calm,  earn- 
est words  of  his,  whicli  implied  an  interest  in  her  fate,  were 
more  precious  to  her  than  the  homage  and  devotion  of  all  the 
world  besides.  And  that  he  loved  her  she  could  no  longer 
doubt ;  and  that  evening  few  of  the  people  at  Audley  Park 
doubted  it  either. 

It  might  have  been  better  for  Maurice  had  he  been  there 
also,  and  seen  what  must  have  opened  his  eyes  to  the  miser- 
able delusion  which  he  was  madly  cherishing  since  he  had 
parted  from  Gertrude ;  but  he  left  Audley  Park  immediately 
afterwards,  and  carried  away  with  him  a  dangerous  hope. 
which — traversed  by  many  a  doubt,  shaken  by  ever  renewed 
misgivings — was  to  be  nursed  in  solitude  and  cherished  into 
life.  His  interview  with  Mary  on  the  afternoon  of  that  day 
wns  strictly  characteristic  of  both  :  he  was  much  affected,  and 
ill  with  excitement  and  agitation  ;  he  spoke  of  his  affection 
for  her,  of  all  she  had  been  to  him,  of  his  misery  at  being 
obliged  by  his  conscience  to  acquiesce  in  the  resolution  she 
had  formed,  until  he  would  have  seemed  to  others,  and,  indeed, 
felt  himself  to  be  the  greater  sufferer  of  the  two  in  the  parting 
of  that  day.  In  truth,  he  could  not  but  be  aware  of  all  he 
was  relinquishing  for  the  snke  of  a  passionate  dream,  in  all 
human  probability  never  to  be  fulfilled ;  and  when  on  his  way 
to  London,  with  his  burning  head  in  his  hands,  he  analysed 
his  feelings  with  an  indignant  impatience  at  his  own  weakness, 
he  was  in  reality  more  to  be  pitied  than  she  who — with 

'•  Her  gontle  clreaniings  gone  forever, 
Iler  innocent  liopea  and  wishes  gone, — all  gone  ; 
A  rainbow  imaged  on  a  crystal  river, 
Was  not  moie  frail — it  slinies — and  now  luiH  .shone" — 

turned  to  her  household  duties,  and  all  the  gentle  charities  of 
life,  without  one  murmur  or  one  bitter  thought.  The  load 
she  had  to  bear  in  those  first  days  of  sorrow  was  doubtless 
heavy,  but  it  had  none  of  those  sharp  edges  which  run  into 
the  heart,  and  fester  there. 

Mr.  Edwards,  the  amateur  magnetiser,  who  had  been  at 
Audley  Park  the  week  before,  came  there  again  on  the  evening 
after   Maurice's  departure.     He  was  introduced  to  Gertrude, 


LADY-BIRD.  199 

and  sat  by  her  at  dinner.  lie  was  an  agreeable  man,  and  she 
was  much  interested  by  all  he  told  her  about  Mesmerism — 
that  mysterious  subject  which  can  no  longer  be  treated  with 
ridicule,  but  is  still  as  far  as  ever  from  any  satisfactory  solu- 
tion ;  which  baffles  so  many  theories,  opens  a  door  as  it  were 
into  another  kind  of  existence  ;  shows  glimpses  of  a  mode  of 
being,  an  agency  of  the  senses,  and  a  whole  order  of  natural 
laws  or  supernatural  effects  which  are  well  calculated  to  con- 
found man's  reason,  to  humble  his  presumption,  to  alarm  his 
scruples,  and  to  suggest  the  exclamation  of  Hamlet,  "  There 
are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamt  of  in  our 
philosophy."  Mr.  Edwards  was,  like  most  other  people,  much 
charmed  with  Gertrude ;  and  perhaps  Adrien,  for  the  first 
time,  felt  how  much  he  cared  for  her  by  his  involuntary  an- 
noyance at  the  interest  with  which  she  listened  to  him.  He 
had  a  strong  instinctive  dislike  to  Mesmerism,  and  avoided  as 
much  as  possible  talking  on  the  subject ;  but  could  not  con- 
quer his  misgivings,  his  repugnance  to  its  use,  his  horror  of 
its  abuse,— '-and  struggled  with  himself  not  to  dislike  Mr.  Ed- 
wards, who  certainly  did  not  practise  it  with  any  idea  that  it 
was  wrong. 

When  the  men  came  out  of  the  dining-room  Mr.  Edwards 
was  surrounded  by  the  women,  who  eagerly  listened  to  his  ac- 
counts, and  were  very  anxious  to  know  which  of  them  he 
thought  most  likely  to  be  susceptible  of  magnetic  influence. 
He  said  that  Gertrude  was  the  one  he  fancied  he  could  most 
easily  mesmerise,  and  he  asked  her  if  she  would  let  him  try 
Fanny  and  Harriet  Apley  pressed  her  to  do  so ;  both  said  it 
was  very  curious  and  very  pleasant,  that  they  had  submitted 
to  the  experiment  the  week  before  ;  that  they  were  ready  to 
do  so  again  ;  and  Lady  Clara  exclaimed,  "  I  am  sure  you  will 
fail.  Gertrude  will  set  that  firm  will  of  hers,  which  I  often 
envy,  against  your  mesmeric  influence,  and  baffle  all  your  ef- 
forts." "  Do  sit  down  in  that  arm-chair,  Miss  Lifford,"  Mr. 
Edwards  said,  "  and  let  me  try." 

Half  reluctant  and  half  persuaded,  she  was  just  comply- 
ing, when  Adrien  entered  the  room.  He  came  up  instantly 
to  her  side,  and  said  in  an  authoritative  manner,  "  You  must 
not  do  that.  Miss  Lifford."  She  started  up  immediately,  and 
stood  behind  Lady  Clara's  chair,  who  was  surprised  at  Adrien's 
unusual  impetuosity.  Mr.  pjdwards  seemed  annoyed,  and 
turning  to  Mrs.  Crofton,  asked  her  in  a  low  voice  if  it  was 
Miss  Lifford's  brother  who  had  thus  peremptorily  interrupted 


200  LADY-niRD. 

the  essay?  This  question  made  Gertrude  colour;  and  Adrien_ 
■who  was  generally  so  calm,  appeared  a  little  disturbed,  and 
went  to  join  a  group  of  men  in  the  next  room.  As  there  was 
some  embarrassment  in  consequence  of  this  abrupt  little  inci- 
dent, Lady  Clara  said,  '•  Come,  Mr.  Edwards,  try  if  you  can 
succeed  in  sending  me  to  sleep  better  than  last  week.  You 
know  I  consider  myself  proof  against  your  passes."  He  pla- 
ced himself  before  her,  and  began  to  make  the  usual  gestures ; 
after  a  few  minutes  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  pretended  to  fall 
asleep  ;  then  suddenly  starting  up  with  a  gay  laugh,  shook 
her  head  triumphantly.  "  Come,  Lady-Bird,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  you  would  not  go  through  the  ordeal,  and  do  not  merit  the 
same  honours  as  I  do.     Let  us  go  to  the  music-room." 

She  turned  round  as  she  said  this,  and  saw  Gertrude  stand- 
ioig  immovable  near  the  chimney — her  countenance  fixed,  and 
her  eyes  with  that  vacant  expression  which  indicates  a  state 
of  natural  or  mesmeric  somnambulism.  "  You  have  mesmer- 
ised licr  /"  she  exclaimed,  with  an  uneasy  feeling,  for  she  had 
a  sort  of  instinctive  dread  of  Adrien's  displeasure ;  and  felt 
at  once  that  Gertrude  was  dearer  to  him  than  she  would  have 
supposed  a  few  moments  before.  "  Undo  what  you  have  done,'' 
she  hastily  said  ;  '•  it  makes  me  nervous  to  see  her  in  that 
state."  Mr.  Edwards  attempted  it,  but,  as  it  seemed,  in  vain, 
and  he  grew  anxious  himself  "  I  did  not  dii*ect  the  magnetic 
influence  directly  towards  her,"  he  hurriedly  exclaimed,  "  and 
I  do  not  know  how  to  deal  with  her  present  state.  Perhaps 
I  can  make  her  follow  me  ;"  and  he  walked  a  few  steps  back- 
wards. They  anxiously  watched  his  movements  and  hers. 
She  mechanically  advanced,  and  followed  him  with  that  pain- 
ful and  apparently  irresistible  sort  of  movement  in  which  the 
will  seems  imconccrned,  and  the  soul  absent.  At  that  mo- 
ment Adricn  returned  towards  the  door  of  the  room,  having 
felt  an  unaccountable  uneasiness  while  he  stayed  away.  He 
turned  pale,  and  his  eyes  flashed  fire  when  he  saw  what  was 
going  on.  Lady  Clara,  who  was  already  very  nervous,  actual- 
ly trembled  when  he  said  to  her  in  a  voice  of  inexpressible 
indignation, 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  with  her?  " 

•'  It  was  all  involuntary,"  she  said,  "  on  her  part  and  ours." 

"  It  was,  was  it  ?  "  he  exclaimed  with  a  mixture  of  anxiety, 
of  anger,  and  of  agitation,  whicli  he  could  hardly  control. 
"  Mr.  Edwards,"  he  said,  commanding  himself  with  a  violent 
effort  to  speak  calmly,  "  what  are  you  doing  now?  What  can 
you  do?  " 


LADT-BIRD.  201 

"  I  can  draw  her  on,  you  see — I  could  lead  bor  wlierever 
I  choose  ; "  and  as  he  moved  more  rapidly  she  precipitately 
followed. 

"  Gertrude,  Gertrude  ! "  Adrien  exclaimed  in  a  voice  of 
fiuch  excessive  vehemence  that  it  startled  the  society  in  the 
next  room. 

Whether  she  was  then  partly  awaking  from  the  trance,  or 
whether  his  voice  had  power  to  reach  her  even  through  that 
sleep  of  the  soul,  so  it  was  that  at  its  sound  she  turned  to- 
wards him  with  an  uncertain  but  different  kind  of  step ;  he 
met  her,  drew  her  arm  in  his ;  she  clung  to  it  instinctively,  and 
laid  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  lie  felt  an  inexpressible  mixture 
of  emotion,  of  uneasiness,  and  of  tenderness,  saw  how  she 
was  unconsciously  betraying  her  feelings — and  in  that  instant 
his  mind  was  made  up.  He  looked  proudly  and  fondly  upon 
her,  and  made  a  sign  to  Lady  Clara  to  join  them.  They  left 
the  room  together,  and  still  supporting  her  he  led  her  to  her 
room;  there  before  leaving  her,  and  in  Lady  Clara's  presence, 
he  respectfully  and  tenderly  kissed  her  hand,  and  then  left  her 
to  the  care  of  others.  She  slept  a  few  hours,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing had  only  a  dreamlike  remembrance  of  that  scese.  Lady 
Clara  went  to  her  early  to  see  how  she  was.  and  explained  to 
her  what  had  happened.  Gertrude  asked  if  she  was  mistaken 
in  fancying  that  Adrien  had  objected  to  her  being  mesmerised? 

"  Certainly  he  did,  Lady-Bird,  and  you  were  as  docile  as 
possible,"  Lady  Clara  answered  with  a  smile,  '•  and  I  was  kind 
enough  to  assure  him  in  the  midst  of  our  agitation  that  you 
had  not  disobeyed  his  command.  Perhaps  it  was  out  of  grat- 
itude for  that  submission  that  he  kissed  your  hand  most  rev- 
erently when  he  consigned  you  to  my  care  last  night." 

Gertrude  coloured  and  said,  "  That,  too,  I  remember,  but 
exactly  like  a  dream,  and  only  fancied  that  I  had  had  an 
uneasy  restless  night.  Dearest  Lady  Clara,  I  hope  I  did  not 
do  anything  odd  when  I  was  in  that  strange  state." 

"  No,  dear  child,  I  do  not  think  you  did  anything  or/f/,'- 
she  answered,  with  a  kind  of  smile  that  did  not  satisfy  Ger- 
trude, and  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  Tears,  my  Lady-Bird  !    What  vexes  you,  dear  Gertrude?  " 

"  Did  I  say,  or  do,  or " 

"Well,  my  Lady-Bird,  I  will  tell  you  the  truth.  You 
showed,  perhaps,  a  little,  that  you  cared  for  Adrien  d'Arberg, 
but  I  think  you  need  not  torment  yourself  about  that,  for  he 
showed  quite  as  plainly  how  much  he  cared  for  you.'' 


202  LADY-BIRD, 

The  embarrassment,  the  nervousness,  and  the  joy  of  that 
moment  quite  overcame  Gertrude  ;  she  turned  abruptly  away 
and  burst  into  tears.  Lady  Clara  sat  down  by  her,  and  held 
her  hand  while  her  head  was  still  averted.  "  I  should  be  glad 
to  think  you  liked  one  another.  There  would  be  such  happi- 
ness in  store  for  you  both." 

"  It  is  impossible  !  "  Gertrude  exclaimed.  "  How  foolish  I 
have  been  to  let  you  see  my  weakness." 

"  I  love  you  all  the  better  for  it,  Lady-Bird.  I  always 
told  you  that  Adrien  d'Arberg  was  one  of  my  heroes,  and  if 
you  had  been  insensible  to  the  interest  that  such  a  man  hasf 
shown  you,  I  really  think  I  should  have  loved  you  no  more." 
She  kissed  her  affectionately,  and  later  came  to  fetch  her  down 
to  breakfast. 

Gertrude  felt  keenly  annoyed  at  the  looks  of  curiosity  that 
were,  or  that  she  fancied  were  directed  upon  her  ;  but  Mr. 
Latimer  relieved  her  embarrassment  by  beginning  at  once  to 
joke  about  the  alarm  they  had  all  experienced  at  her  trance, 
and  asked  if  the  enchanter  had  not  begged  her  pardon  j^et  ? 
Mr.  Edwards,  upon  this,  approached,  and  sitting  down  at  her 
other  side,  expressed  his  regret  at  what  had  occurred,  and  she 
gradually  recovered  her  self-possession,  though  not  quite  her 
usual  spirits.  After  breakfast,  Adrien  spoke  to  her  some 
time  ;  and  he,  too,  asked  her  to  forgive  him  for  his  interference 
the  night  before. 

"  It  was  more  than  I  could  endure,"  he  said,  "  to  see  you 
thus  playing  with  edged  tools.  If  you  had  held  a  glass  of 
poison  in  your  hand,  I  should  have  hardly  felt  more  compelled 
to  snatch  it  from  you." 

"  I  feel  too  nervous  to  speak  much  about  it,"  she  said  ;  "but 
I  hope  you  know  that  it  was  not  wilfully  that  I  disregarded 
your  warning.  By  the  way,"  she  added  with  a  smile,  ''  our 
acquaintance  began  with  a  warning." 

"  It  is  not  perhaps  the  last  I  shall  give  you,  Lady-Bird,  if 
you  receive  them  so  well." 

She  felt  that  there  was  more  in  those  words  than  met  the 
ear.  She  ceased  to  care  for  what  others  had  thought  or  seen 
— he  was  not  displeased  with  her ;  that  was  enough.  All 
that  day  and  the  next,  his  manner  to  her  was  too  devoted  to 
leave  any  doubt  in  her  mind,  or  in  that  of  others,  that  he 
liked  her  ;  but  there  was  in  it  at  the  same  .time  a  reserve,  a 
difl&dence,  that  banished  all  idea  that  he  had  drawn  encourage- 
ment from  the  involuntary  expression  of  her  feelings  which  ho 
and  others  had  witnessed. 


LADY-BIRD.  203 

A  few  days  later  the  carriage  was  sent  to  fetch  her  home. 
A  letter  from  her  father  had  arrived  that  morning,  stating 
that  Edgar  had  met  with  a  serious,  though  not  alarming 
accident. 

His  hor.-e  had  stumbled,  and  fallen  with  him,  as  he  was 
making  an  excursion  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Seville.  Though 
he  was  doing  well,  the  process  of  recovery  would  be  likely  to 
prove  tedious,  and  as  he  was  himself  obliged  to  return  to 
England  for  unavoidable  business  before  his  son  could  travel, 
he  earnestly  requested  Father  LiflFord  to  set  off  immediately 
for  Spain,  to  take  charge  of  hira  during  his  absence,  and  at 
the  same  time  to  superintend  those  affairs  which  he  had  put  in 
train,  but  which  required  the  presence  of  some  member  of  the 
family  to  carry  them  on.  This  letter  had  much  agitated  Mrs. 
Lifford  ;  her  anxiety  about  her  son  overcame  her  regret  at  the 
Father's  departure  ;  but  the  absence  of  such  a  friend  in  her 
state  of  health,  and  under  all  the  circumstances,  was  trying  in 
the  extreme,  and  she  felt  alarmed  at  the  idea  that  her  husband 
and  her  daughter  would  be  thrown  together  on  their  own 
resources,  without  the  safeguard  of  his  rough  but  genuine 
kindness.  She  felt  very  miserable,  but  never  doubted  that  he 
must  go,  and  she  sent  for  Gertrude  to  come  and  take  leave  of 
him.  Some  time  ago  it  would  have  been  little  sorrow  to  her 
to  part  with  him ;  .but  during  the  last  year  she  had  learned  to 
appreciate  his  excellence  ;  and  her  affection  for  him  now  was 
as  great  as  her  respect.  Like  her  mother,  she  trembled  at  the 
idea  of  finding  herself  alone  with  her  father,  and  she  had 
hardly  been  aware  -how  much  she  had  looked  to  Father  Lif- 
ford's  guidance  and  support,  in  the  future  which  was  vaguely 
sketched  out  in  her  imagination.  He  had  written  her  a  short 
note,  and  she  sat  with  it  in  her  hand,  absorbed  in  these 
thoughts,  when  Lady  Roslyn,  who  was  the  only  person  in  the 
drawing-room  with  her,  asked  her  kindly  if  she  had  received 
bad  news.  She  roused  herself,  and  answered  "  That  her 
brother  had  met  with  an  accident  in  Spain,  but  not  a  danger- 
ous one,  and  that,  in  consequence,  her  uncle  Lifford  was  about 
to  leave  England  to  join  him,  and  that  she  must  instantly  go 
home  to  wish  him  good-bye." 

"  But  you  will  come  back  1 " 

"  No,"  Gertrude  answered  decidedly,  "  no,  not  at  present, 
and  a  long  '  at  present '  it  must  be  ;  I  cannot  leave  my  laother 
during  Father  Lifford's  absence.  Do  you  know  where  Lady 
Clara  is?" 


204  LADY-BIRD. 

"  Look  for  her  in  the  morning-room.     She  was  there  just 


now." 


Lady  Roslyn  knew  that  Lady  Clara  was  walking  in  the  gar- 
den gathering  some  roses,  and  that  Adrien  was  writing  a  letter 
in  the  room  she  had  pointed  out,  and  it  amused  her  to  bring 
about  an  interview  which  she  fancied  might  be  a  decisive  one. 
More  than  any  one  else  she  had  watched  the  course  of  that 
'•  true  love,"  and  it  pleased  her  fancy  just  then  to  remove  a 
pebble  from  its  course.  When  Adrien  raised  his  head  from 
his  writing,  and  saw  Gertrude  looking  into  the  room,  he  started 
up  and  went  to  her.  "Come  in  here  a  moment,  will  you?" 
he  said  to  her  with  some  emotion  in  his  voice.  She  did  so, 
and  gave  him  Father  Liiford's  note.  lie  read  it  twice  over, 
and  then  said  :  "I  am  very  glad  that  your  father  is  coming 
back  so  soon." 

"Are  you?"  she  answered  in  a  dejected  manner.  "You 
are  not?  "  he  said  in  a  tone  of  inquiry.  She  made  no  answer 
at  first,  but  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  ground.  In  an  instant  she 
murmured  in  a  low  voice :  "  I  am  very  sorry  to  part  with  Fa- 
ther LiflFord."  "  Partings  are  sad  things,"  he  said,  and  seem- 
ed to  read  again  the  note  he  hold,  as  if  to  gain  time  and  pre- 
vent her  moving.  "  Gertru-^e  !  '  he  began  at  last,  and  sat 
down  by  her  side  while  she  trembled  visibly,  "  Gertrude,  as 
soon  as  your  father  retarns,  I  shall  ask  to  see  him,  and  then 
my  fate  will  be  in  his  naads  and  in  yours."  She  turned  as 
pale  as  death.  There  warf  at  once  too  much  joy  and  too  much 
fear  in  her  heart,  it  made  her  shudder  to  hear  of  her  fate 
left  in  her  father'.*  hands, — but  she  did  not  venture  to  express 
this  feeling,  and  made  no  answer.  He  became  uneasy  at  her 
paleness  and  her  silence. 

"  Gertrude."  he  e::claimed,  "have  I  been  wrong?  Have  I 
hoped  too  much  ?  " 

She  raised  her  eyes  slowly  to  his.  Those  eyes  which 
spoke  more  than  the  most  eloquent  tongue. 

"  How  could  you,"  she  faintly  said,  "  be  wrong  ?  Oh 
Adrien  d'Arberg,  do  you  indeed  love  me  ?  " 

"  Dearly — tenderly — devotedly,"  he  murmured,  and  press- 
ed her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  Then,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  mixture  of  excitement  and 
of  emotion,  "  then  life  has  no  greater  happiness  to  give. 
Adrien,  I  do  not  deserve  to  be  your  wife.  I  wish  I  might  die 
now.  Is  it  not  enough  fo"  ine  to  have  heard  you  say  what 
you  did  just  now  ?  I  have  been  happy.  Adrien, — my  soul  is 
satisfied, — I  ciare  not  hope  much  for  the  future." 


LAUY-BIRD.  205 

"  Is  this  misgiving,  dearest,  a  nervous  fancy,  or  do  you 
foresee  obstacles  to  my  wishes?  " 

"  No,  no, — why  should  there  bo  obstacles?  There  ought 
not  to  be. ' 

"  I  think  that  in  a  worldly  point  of  view  they  are  not 
likely  to  arise.  That  with  regard  to  what  you  and  I  should 
neither  think  of  nor  care  about,  I  may  be  able  to  satisfy  your 
father.  Gertrude,  dearest  Gertrude,  you  do  not  look  happy. 
Tell  me  what  you  feel,  and  what  you  fear." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  feel ;  I  don't  know  what  I  fear,  ex 
cept  that  I  feel  that  I  love  you,  and  that  I  fear  to  part  with 
you — more  than  I  ought  to  do  or  at  least  to  5(7?/,"  she  added, 
with  a  tone  of  such  inexpressible  tenderness,  tinged  with  that 
neryous  anxiety  which  she  could  not  repress,  that  Adrien  was 
deeply  aflfected.  She  saw  it  and  exclaimed,  "  There  are  tears 
in  your  eyes,  Adrien  !  Are  you  sorry  for  me  that  I  love  you 
so  much?  Do  you  pity  me  in  your  heart  ?  Well  you  may.  if 
this  is  only  to  be  a  dream  of  happiness.  If  you  were  not 
what  you  are,  I  should  be  ashamed  of  having  been  so  easily 
won  ;  but  I  am  not  ashamed, — I  am  proud  of  loving  you, 
proud  that  your  eyes  are  looking  kindly  upon  mo.  proud  of 
being  something  to  you,  who  are  everything  to  me.  Heaven 
forgive  me  if  I  love  you  too  much  !  " 

Adrien  seized  her  hands  and  pressed  them  fervently  to  his 
lips.  She  did  not  draw  them  away,  but  turned  her  eyes  towards 
the  sky,  and  for  an  instant  scarcely  seemed  to  hear  him,  while 
he  spoke  to  her  of  his  love  in  words  which  nevertheless  vibrat- 
ed in  her  heart, but  which  she  listened  to  in  silence, as  if  "the 
harps  of  the  skies  had  rung,  and  the  airs  of  Heaven  played 
round  his  tongue."  Never  had  he  thought  her  so  beautiful, 
never  had  he  felt  so  strong,  so  absorbing,  so  painful  an  interest 
in  any  human  being.  Perhaps  in  that  instant  a  doubt,  faint 
as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  on  a  lake,  passed  through  his  mind, 
— a  doubt  of  her  being  the  woman  whom  he  had  once  pictvired 
to  himself  as  the  ideal  of  her  sex,  as  the  model  of  a  wife  ; 
and  the  remembrance  of  Ida's  calm  and  serene  face  rose  for 
an  instant  before  him.  But  it  was  not  disenchantment,  or 
coldness,  or  regret  that  he  felt ;  on  the  contrary,  having  loved 
her  enough  to  assume  the  responsibility  of  her  destiny,  touch- 
ed to  the  heart  by  her  tenderness,  transported  by  her  beauty, 
he  looked  upon  her  as  from  that  hour  his  owii,  his  treasure, 
his  precious  and  fearful  charge. 

The  very   strangeness  of  her  character   endeared  her  to 


206  LADY-BIRD. 

him  ;  and  there  was  something  of  respect  as  well  as  of  gentle- 
ness in  his  mode  of  addressing  her.  He  instinctively  felt  that 
in  such  a  nature  there  were  great  lurking  virtues,  and  deep 
unknown  dangers ;  whether  he  had  done  well  and  wisely  for 
his  own  happiness  in  winning  that  heart  of  fire,  and  in  gaining 
such  mastery  over  that  wayward  spirit,  he  did  not  ask  himself. 
Ilis  own  happiness  was  always  the  last  of  his  thoughts ;  a 
new  duty  was  in  his  life  and  a  new  object  in  his  hopes. 

•'  I  must  go,"  she  said,  "  and  vanq^uish  this  foolish  feeling 
of  dread  for  the  future." 

"  You  must  indeed,"  he  said,  "  you  must  trust,  my  Ger- 
trude ;  you  must  learn  the  full  meaning  of  tlmt  beautiful 
English  word." 

"  I  trust  you,"  she  said.     "  If  you  deceived   me  I  should 

never  trust  anything  again  on  earth  or  in  ■ "  she  stopped 

short,  and  did  not  end  her  sentence. 

"  May  I,"  he  asked,  "  spend  another  Sunday  at  LifFord 
Grange  and  see  your  mother  once  more  ?  After  that  I  would 
go  to  Ireland,  and  return  by  the  time  your  father  arrived." 

'•'•  Yes,  oh  yes,  another  Sunday.  Another  little  life  of 
eight  hours.  Now  I  must  go  ;  I  see  Lady  Clara  is  in  the 
garden." 

When  Lady  Clara  met  her  she  was  struck  by  her  paleness 
and  nervousness,  but  which  the  note  she  showed  her  sufficient- 
ly accounted  for,  and  at  that  moment  she  did  not  suspect  any 
other  cause  of  that  emotion ;  but  after  she  was  gone  Adrien 
told  her  what  had  passed  between  them,  and  that  he  intended 
to  propose  for  her  when  Mr.  Lifford  returned  to  England. 
She  took  the  greatest  interest  in  the  subject,  and  made  him 
promise  to  write  to  her  to  Paris,  where  she  was  going  to  spend 
the  winter,  to  acquaint  her  with  the  result.  "  Not  that  I  feel 
any  doubt  about  it,"  she  said  ;  '•  a  name  and  a  fortune,  such 
as  yours,  are  not  likely  to  be  refused  by  the  most  fanciful 
father  in  the  world.  But  I  shall  be  carious  to  hear  how  you 
are  received,  when  you  '  beard  the  lion  in  his  den,  the  Lifi"ord 
in  his  hall.'  I  am  quite  jealous  of  your  having  seen  Lady- 
Bird's  mother,  though  now  I  have  no  right  to  be  so.  Is  she 
like  her?" 

"  I'ancy  Lady  Bird — as  I  fervently  hope  you  may  never 
see  her — with  all  the  colour  washed  out  of  her  cheeks,  the  fire 
extinguished  in  her  eyes,  but  not  the  tenderness  and  the 
beauty  ;  like  the  shadow  of  herself;  like  the  rose  after,  not  a 
shower  but  a  storm,  its  bloom  and  its  life  almost  fled — all  but 
ts  sweetness :  so  she  seemed  to  me." 


LADY-BIKD.  207 

''  How  I  should  like  to  see   her  !     I  spoke  to  Lady-Bird 

.6out  it,  but  she  was  not  encouraging." 

"  Dear  Lady  Clara,  there  are  ruaiiy  drooping  flowers  iu 
the  world  that  you  can  revive  by  your  presence,  but  this  one  is 
trembling  on  its  stem,  and  even  a  breath  might  be  fatal." 

"  But  I  would  breathe  so  gently  ?  " 

"  Do  not  try  experiments,  especially  where  you  know  not 
how  sore  memory  may  be." 

"  I  think  I  might  do  good." 

He  smiled  and  said,  '■  Our  old  dispute,  more  anxious  to  do 
good  than  afraid  of  doing  harm." 

"  Yes,  I'adhere  to  my  opinion. — B}^  the  way  have  I  spoiled 
Lady-Bird  as  you  predicted  ?  Is  she  not  mure  charming  than 
ever  'I " 

"  Quite  charming  enough,  Heaven  knows  !  What  is  there 
about  that  girl  that  enchants  one  so  much  1  I  feel  it  too  much 
to  define  it." 

"  0  she  is  Lady-Bird,  that  is  all  T  know, — she  is  the  most 
high  bred  of  untamed  creatures, —  the  most  gently  wild,  the 
most  femininely  bold,  the  most  innocently  uiischievous  of 
human  beings.  What  a  bird  to  have  caught  M.  d'Arberg  ! 
What  a  prize  to  have  found  under  a  tree  in  the  park " 

At  that  moment,  Mrs.  Crofton  and  IMr.  Jiatimer  joined 
them,  and  scolding  in  his  usual  nianncr.  he  exclaimed,  "  Why 
have  you  let  Lady-Bird  go  ?  I  can't  do  without  her.  What 
do  you  mean  by  letting  her  go  ?  " 

'•  It  is  like  the  story  of  the  House  that  Jack  built,"  Lady 
Clara  answered.  '•  She  must  go  to  her  mother,  whose  uncle  is 
going  to  Spain,  whose  nephew  has  broken  his  leg,  whose  father 
is  coming  home " 


"  What,  what's  all  that  ?     Who  has  broken  his  leg  ?  " 
'•  Lady-Bird's  brother,  the  heir  of  all  the  Lifi'ords." 
"  Confound  the  boy  !  he  is  alwdys  breaking  his  leg." 
Lady  Clara  and  Adrien  laughed,  but    Mr.   Latimer  was 
really  cross,  and  walked  away  repeating :  "  It  is  quite  true — ■ 
she  is  always  going  away ;  they  never  keep  a  pleasant  person 
here  two  days  together.     Those  Miss  Apleys,  I  dare  say,  will 
stay  us  all  out."     Mrs.  Crofton  smiled  as  she  looked  at  hiiu 
with  her  spying-glass,  and  cried, 

"  O  blest  with  temper  whose  unclouded  ray 
Still  makes  to-morrow  cheerful  a.s  tjilay." 


206  LADY-BIRD. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  Ours  was  love  indeed. 

No  cliildish  daj'-dreain,  but  a  life  intense 

"Within  our  liearts ;  we  spoke  not  of  our  love, 

But  in  our  mutual  silence  it  was  felt, — 

In  the  intense  absorbinsr  hajipiness 

Of  mutual  long,  long  looks,  as  if  our  souls 

Held  sweet  communion  through  our  passionate  eyes." 

And  is  he  gone  ?    Oil  sudden  solitude 
How  oft  that  fearful  question  will  intrude  ! 
'Twas  but  an  instant  passed  !  and  here  he  stood, 
And  now! — Without  the  portal's  porch  she  rushed  ; 
And  then  her  tears  at  length  in  freedom  gushed, 
Big,  brigl)t,  and  fiust,  unknown  to  her  they  fell. 
But  still  her  lips  refused  to  say  '  FareM-ell.' 
For  in  that  word,  that  fatal  word,  howe'er 
We  promise,  hope,  believe,  there  breathes  despair." 

Btroh. 

Gertrude  arrived  in  time  to  talie  leave  of  Father  Lifford, 
and  bad  a  long  conversation  with  him  before  he  went.  In 
the  evening  she  took  her  work,  and  sat  down  by  the  sofa 
where  her  mother  was  dozing  ;  it  had  been  a  great  emotion 
to  her  to  part  with  her  best  and  only  friend,  and  as  she  slept 
Gertrude  could  see  by  her  swollen  eyelids  that  she  had  been 
weeping.  She  longed  for  her  to  wake,  for  she  had  that  to  tell 
her  that  would  make  her  weep  again,  perliaps,  but  from  a  dif- 
ferent feeling.  Her  own  heart  was  fluttering  with  happiness  ; 
the  sort  of  nervous  misgiving  which  had  troubled  her  joy,  at 
the  moment  of  the  realisation  of  her  hopes,  had  passed  away. 
Her  confidence  in  the  future  was  now  as  great  as  her  diffidence 
had  been.  She  thought  of  herself  as  Adrien's  wife.  She 
wrote  on  a  paper,  in  her  work-box,  the  signature  that  would 
be  one  day  hers,  "  Gertrude  d'Arberg."  and  then  tore  up  the 
paper  hastily,  as  if  she  had  been  doing  something  Avrong. 
Instead  of  going  on  with  the  lily  she  was  embroidering,  she 
worked  Adrien's  name  on  her  canvass,  and  then  unpicked  it. 
She  pictured  to  herself  his  chateau  in  Brittany  ;  her  arrival 
in  the  "  plaisant  pays  de  France  ;  "  the  share  she  would  take 
in  all  his  labours  of  love  and  of  genius.  There  were  no 
heights  of  virtue,  no  intellectual  improvement  which  her  im- 
agination did  not  aim  at  and  compass  in  anticipation. 

Her  mother  murmured  in  her  sleep,  and  then  awoke  with 
a  frightened  look.  ''  Gertrude,  is  it  you,  my  child  ?  I  have 
had  a  painful  dream,  and  am  glad  to  be  aw^ake.     It  was  only 


LADY-BIRD.  209 

a  dream.      How  pleasant  it  is  to  find  thee  there  by  my  side. 
Hast  thou  been  there  long  ?  " 

"  For  an  hour,  I  think,  dearest,  but  it  has  seemed  like  a 
minute.  My  waking  dreams  have  been  sweeter  than  your 
sleeping  ones.  Shall  I  tell  you,  mamma,  what  they  have 
been  about  ?  " 

"  Yes — put  thyself  here,  close  to  me,  with  thy  face  near 
to  mine,  that  I  may  look  at  thee  while  thou  speakest.  What 
hast  thou  been  dreaming  of  ?  " 

"  Happiness — happiness  ! — immense,  deep,  and  wide  as  the 
mind  can  reach  to,  and  the  heart  contain.  He  loves  me,  ma- 
dre  mia, — he  loves  me  !  Is  not  that  the  greatest  bliss  that 
earth  can  give  ?  " 

Mrs.  Lifford  clasped  her  hands,  and  pressed  them  on  her 
eyes.  Gertrude  saw  the  quivering  of  her  mother's  mouth, 
and  threw  herself  ijito  her  arms.  She  felt  her  heart  throb 
against  her  own  ;  and  "then  throwing  back  her  head,  and  seat- 
ing herself  on  the  edge  of  the  couch,  she  said,  '•  Now  don't 
weep,  mamma,  but  smile  and  wish  me  joy." 

"  I  am  glad  he  loves  thee — glad  of  that,  anyhow,  and  I 
hope,  0  fervently  I  hope,  that  thy  father  will  let  thee  marry 
him." 

A  resolute  and  singular  expression  passed  over  Gertrude's 
countenance  as  she  said,  "  On  that  point  my  mind  is  made  up. 
I  am  almost  of  ago,  and  my  father's  will  shall  not  stand  be- 
tween me  and  virtue,  happiness,  and  peace  of  mind.  Adri- 
en  possesses  every  one  of  the  worldly  advantages  which  my 
father  cares  about,  and  which  I  only  value,  as  belonging  to 
him,  who  ennobles  everything  that  even  remotely  appertains 
to  him.  Should  my  father,  without  the  shadow  of  a  reason 
or  excuse,  refuse  his  consent,  nothing  on  earth  will  ever  per- 
suade me  that  conscience  re(pures  the  moral  suicide  which 
would  be  imposed  upon  me,  I  would  as  soon  throw  myself 
into  the  river  at  his  will,  as  give  him  up  to  whom  my  soul  is 
bound  by  ties  which  never  can  be  severed.  But  it  is  impos 
Bible  that  he  can  refuse  his  consent,  unless  he  hates  me  with 
an  unnatural  hatred,  and  that  I  will  not  and  cannot  believe, 
till  I  see  it." 

"Be  calm.  Gertrude.      Be  calm,  I  implore  thee." 

"  I  am  perfectly  calm,  dearest,  because  noy  mind  is  made 
up.  I  am  my  father's  daughter  in  one  respect,  and  have  a  will 
that  may  break  but  which  will  not  bend." 

"  But  he  may  break  it,"  Mrs.  Lifford  murmured  in  a  tone 
of  anguish.     "  He  may  break  both  will  and  heart." 

U 


210  LADYBIRD. 

"  No,  both  are  beyond  his  reach.  There  are  no  lettres-de- 
cachet  in  this  age  and  country,  thank  Heaven  !  Mamma,  do 
not  look  so  friglitened.  I  am  cahu  and  happy.  The  future  is 
bright,  phiin  and  clear  before  me ;  like  to  the  sky  at  this  mo- 
ment.  See,  the  clouds  have  rolled  away,  and  in  front  of  us 
there  is  nothing  but  the  pure  soft  blue  expanse,  with  the  first 
stars  glimmering  here  and  there  in  their  beauty, — 

W      '  The  pale  stars  watduLig  to  behold  the  might  of  earthly  love,' 

as  one  of  my  favourite  poems  has  it." 

"  Did  you  speak  about  this  to  Father  Lifford,  Gertrude  ?  " 
"  I  did,  mamma  ;  we  talked  about  it  a  long  time.  He 
would  not  commit  himself,  or  seem  to  approve  of  it  till  ha 
knew  whether  my  father  would  consent,  but  I  could  see  that 
he  wished  that  it  should  be  so, — I  am  sure  he  does.  How 
could  it  be  otherwise?  He  is  good,  and  he  admires  goodness. 
He  is  kind,  and  he  has  seen  me  suffer.  He  knows  me  better 
than  any  one  else  in  the  world,  and  he  must  feel  that  every- 
thing is  at  stake  for  me  at  this  crisis  in  my  life.  Happiness 
and  virtue  on  the  one  side— on  the  other,  nothing  short  of 
despair." 

"  Gertrude,  Gertrude,  did  he  not  reason  with  thee  ?  " 
"Yes;  and  I  reasoned  with  him.  He  said  it  would  be 
my  duty  to  submit  to  my  father,  whatever  his  will  might  be 
in  this  matter  ;  and  I  then  asked  him  solemnly,  not  as  my 
uncle — not  as  Mr.  Liiford — but  as  a  priest,  and  in  confession, 
whether  it  would  be  a  sin,  in  a  case  likt,  this,  where  not  a 
word  could  be  said  against  him  I  love,  even  by  worldly 
wisdom,  when  nothing  but  arbitrary  caprice  could  withhold 
consent, — whether  it  would  be  a  sin,  after  patient  entreaties 
and  humble  remonstrances  had  been  tried,  and  tried  in  vain, 
to  act  as  the  law  would  permit,  and  marry  without  that 
consent?  He  said  it  would  be  undutiful  ;  but  then  I  pressed 
him  again  to  say,  if  no  length  of  time,  if  no  circumstances  of 
character,  no  peculiarities  of  position  would  ever  give  a  sane* 
tion  to  such  a  course  ?  He  said  that  would  be  a  question  for 
consideration  when  the  time  arrived, — I  saw  he  could  not 
pronounce  against  it, — I  saw  that  in  his  mind  there  was  a 
doubt,  and  that  was  enough  for  me.  I  feel  strong  against  the 
future, — strong  in  my  confidence, — strong  in  my  resolution. 
The  waves  of  life  may  toss  me  yet  to  and  fro,  but  my  anchor 
is  cast,  and  my  helm  is  pointed." 

"  Gertrude,  dearest,  my  feeble  reasonings  I  will  not  urge 


I 


LADY-BIRD.  211 

upon  thee.  Indeed  I  know  not  what  I  could,  or  ought  to  say. 
Pray  for  thee  I  will  ardently,  unceasingly.  Thou  hast  com- 
pai-ed  thyself  to  a  ship,  dear  child.  Shall  I  tell  thee  what  I 
think?  Tliou  art  going  too  fast  before  the  wind.  The  sails 
of  thy  bark  are  too  boldly  unfurled." 

"  My  anchor  is  cast,  I  cannot  drift  away." 

"  0  Gertrude,  my  child  !  Chains  have  snapped  ere  now. 
Trust  in  none  but  God." 

"  I  trust  in  Adrien,  as  I  trust  in  God." 

"  That  is  what  I  fear.     Thou  hast  made  him  an  idol." 

"  And  a  noble  worship  it  is." 

"  Tremble,  Gertrude  ! — tremble  at  what  thou  sayest,  or  I 
must  tremble  for  thee,  and  for  him  thou  so  much  lovest." 

"  Yes,  mother  mine,"  Gertrude  exclaimed,  falling  on  her 
knees,  and  throwing  her  arms  around  her  neck.  "  Yes,  I 
tremble  for  myself,  but  I  will  bide  me  in  thy  bosom ;  on  that 
breast  which  has  suffered  so  much,  which  has  endured  so 
nobly,  I  will  lay  my  throbbing  head.  Plead  for  me,  mother, 
with  Him  whom  thou  hast  loved  and  served  from  thy  youth 
up.  Call  down  His  blessing  on  thy  wayward  child.  Ask  for 
her  all  she  dares  not  ask  for  herself  I  once  read  of  a  sinful 
woman  who,  when  frightened  by  a  thunder-storm,  made  an 
innocent  child  lie  over  her,  to  shield  her  from  the  lightning.* 
So  mother  mine,  I  would  place  you  and  your  sufferings  and 
your  patience  between  me  and  the  punishment  that  my  undis- 
ciplined heart  deserves.  There  is  but  one  that  it  fears,  to 
lose  Adrien  ;  and  that  would  indeed  be  greater  than  it  could 
bear." 

The  following  Sunday  was  the  happiest  day  that  Gertrude 
had  yet  known.  Adrien's  presence  imparted  to  her  a  sense 
of  security  in  her  present  happiness,  and  of  calm  anticipation 
of  the  future  which  she  had  not  yet  experienced.  He  had  a 
long  interview  with  her  mother,  in  which  he  unfolded  to  her 
his  feelings,  his  hopes,  and  his  projects.  As  much  as  was 
possible  he  imparted  to  her  the  conditions  of  fortune  and  of 
family  which  he  would  have  to  submit  to  her  husband ;  and 
looked  in  her  eyes  for  the  approval  he  solicited.  She  held  out 
her  hand  to  him,  and  in  a  few  words  of  heartfelt  emotion  told 
him  that  to  confide  Gertrude  to  his  love  and  care,  to  see  her 
his  wife,  would  be  the  dearest  of  her  wishes,  the  greatest 
source  of  joy  to  her  during  the  time  she  might  yet  live,  and 
tt  the  moment  of  death. 

*  Madame  dc  Montespaa 


212  LADY-BIRD, 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  still  holding  his  hand,  "  you  must  think 
of  my  words,  if  I  should  die  without  seeing  you  again.  You 
must  remember  that  a  mother  has  trusted  you,  more  than. she 
ought  perhaps,  but  not  more  than  you  deserve.  I  have  let 
you  come  here  to-day.  God  only  knows  if  I  have  acted  rightly ; 
but  I  know  you,  and  if  I  have  done  imprudently  you  will  not 
make  me  repent  of  it.  Never  at  any  time,  never  under  any 
circumstances,  will  you  belie  what  I  now  read  in  your  eyes, 
what  the  pressure  of  your  hand  confirms ;  her  happiness,  but 
above  all  her  virtue,  her  honour  will  be  safe  in  your  keeping. 
Even  to  your  own  loss,  to  yovxr  own  bitter  grief  if  needs  bo, 
you  will  never  tempt  her  to  offend  her  God,  or  to  swerve  from 
duty.  She  loves  you  too  much  perhaps  for  her  own  peace  of 
mind  ;  but  it  must  be  safe  to  love  you,  such  an  affection  will 
not  mislead  her.  You  understand  all  I  would  but  cannot  saj. 
My  tongue  falters,  but  your  tears  reply." 

"  I  carried  her  once  in  my  arras,"  he  answered,  "  pale  and 
motionless  as  dea.th,  and  looked  upon  her  with  respect  and  ad- 
miration. That  day  I  began  to  love  her,  and  I  have  loved 
her  more  and  more  ever  since.  To  protect  and  to  cherish  her 
through  life  and  till  death  is  my  hope  and  my  prayer.  If  her 
father  refuse  to  give  her  to  me,  I  will  wait,  and  watch,  and 
pray  for  her  at  a  distance  ;  and  if  ever  I  tempt  her  to  aught 
approaching  to  a  sin.  may  tlio  blessing  you  now  give  me  turn 
into  the  curse  I  shall  merit." 

She  pressed  his  hand,  and  drawing  from  her  finger  a  small 
ring  which  bore  the  image  of  a  cross,  she  put  it  upon  his,  and 
once  more  fervently  blessed  him. 

'•  You  will  plead  for  me  with  your  husband  the  next  time 
I  come  ?  " 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes.  '•  I  will  pray  to  God,"  she  an- 
swered ;  "  He  will  hear  me."  Adrien  sighed  deeplj^.  Mi*. 
Lifford's  chai-acter  was  rising  before  him  every  moment  more 
clearly.  In  his  wife's  meekness,  in  his  daughter's  inipetuosity._ 
in  his  uncle's  silence,  it  stood  revealed.  No  one  had  said  he 
was  hard,  but  all  shrunk  from  his  name. 

Adrien  and  Gertrude,  on  that  October  afternoon,  sat  to- 
gether iu  that  solemn  garden  by  the  deep  still  stream,  oj^po- 
site  to  the  chapel  where  they  had  knelt  together,  and  to  the 
room  where  her  n)other  had  blessed  him.  The  silence  of  Na- 
ture in  its  decaying  beauty,  the  withered  leaves  falling  near 
them,  or  trembling  on  the  boughs,  would  have  beseemed  a 
scene  of  sorrow  more  than  one  of  such  intense  hapniness      It 


LADY-BIRD.  213 

was  a  strange  visitant  in  the  old  silent  garden,  that  joy  »vhicli 
filled  their  hearts,  and  which  beamed  in  their  eyes.  The 
stone  bench  on  which  they  sat,  the  straight  alley  through 
which  they  walked,  the  cold  statues  near  which  they  stood, 
seemed  to  wonder  at  the  sight.  There  was  a  pale,  sickly- 
looking  rose-tree  near  the  bench  where  they  rested ;  he  gath- 
ered some  of  the  flowers,  and  said, 

"  This  is  the  same  species  which  grows  in  brilliant  masses 
iu  the  court  of  our  Norman  chateau." 

"  Ay,"  she  said,  "  flowers  and  people  are  modified  when 
transplanted." 

"  You  would  like  that  old  place,  I  think,  though  it  is  very 
unlike  Audley  Park " 

«  And  Lifi"ord  Grange  ?  " 

"  And  Liff"ord  Grange  also.  Picture  to  yourself  four  grey 
turrets  overgrown  with  ivy  ;  a  portal  covered  with  wallflowers 
and  blue  larkspurs,  a  paved  court  with  a  well,  and  a  seat 
winch  the  moss  has  invaded ;  the  rose-trees  I  was  speaking  of 
clustering  up  to  the  windows,  and  a  flight  of  stone  steps  out- 
side the  wall  on  one  side.  But  you  must  not  judge  it 
hastily." 

''  l)o  I  ever  judge  thus,  M.  d'Arberg  ?  One  rash  judg- 
ment I  made  near  the  grotto  of  Woodlands,  but  I  have  not  re- 
pented of  it." 

•'  Well,  only  be  as  indulgent  to  the  old  castle  as  to  its 
owner,  and  I  shall  be  satisfied ;  live  in  it,  and  by  degrees  I 
thinK  you  will  love  it.  Its  picturesque  exterior,  its  wild 
flowers  in  every  crevice,  its  magnificent  view  over  oceans  of 
cornfields,  and  forests  of  fruit-trees,  its  sunny  little  terrace 
where  lizards  run  in  and  out  of  the  low  grey  wall,  and  the 
Normon  church,  half  way  between  it  and  the  village, — my 
brother,  and  his  wife,  and  the  old  cure,  who  always  used  at 
every  visit  to  exhort  me  to  marry,  how  happy  they  will  be 
when  I  take  home  to  them  my  English  bride.  The  children, 
too,  I  sent  them  a  message  iu  my  last  letter  to  Henri.  I  re- 
minded them  of  a  hunt  we  had  last  year  for  their  fovourite 
Lady- Birds,  and  said  that  if  they  were  good  I  would  try  to 
bring  them  an  English  •  oiseau  du  bon  Dieu,'  more  beautiful 
than  the  little  living  toys  they  were  so  fond  of  then.  Ger- 
trude, my  own  Gertrude,  am  I  wrong  to  talk  with  such  confi- 
dence of  the  future — to  draw  such  pictures  of  happiness,  til) 
that  happiness  is  actually  mine  ?  If  your  father  were  not  to 
consent  to  our  marriage,  how  I  should  reproach  myself  foi 


214  LADY-BxRD. 

having  dared  to  speak  to  you  of  my  love  as  I  have  done,  at 
the  selfish  joy  it  has  been  to  hear  from  your  lips  that  you  love 
me.  Gertrude.  I  sometimes  reproach  myself  very  much  for 
having " 

"  Made  me  happy,"  she  said,  with  one  of  her  own  smiles. 
"  Adrien,  I  am  afraid  you  are  too  good." 

"  If  you  have  no  other  fear  than  tJiat^  petit  oiseau  du  bon 
Dieu " 

"  It  is  a  great  fear,"  she  answered  seriously,  "  but  not  my 
only  one  I  think  it  is  very  likely  my  father  will  refuse  hia 
consent  to  our  marriage." 

"  Gertrude,  you  speak  with  a  strange  calmness.  You  do 
not  really  mean  that  you  expect  this  ?  on  what  grounds  do 
you  suppose  that  he  will  object  to  it  1 — have  you  any  reason  to 
imagine  that  he  has  other  views  for  you  ?  " 

"  No,  not  the  slightest ;  but  it  has  ever  been  his  practice 
to  oppose  my  wishes  on  every  subject,  and  why  should  he  act 
difFereutly  on  this  occasion  ?  0  Adrien,  you  do  not  know  my 
father." 

A  cloud  passed  over  d'Arberg's  face,  and  he  sighed  deeply 
She  waited  anxiously  for  the  next  words  he  would  utter. 

'•  If  indeed  he  does  not  love  you,"  he  exclaimed,  "which  I 
can  hardly  conceive,  will  he  not  the  less  object  to  your  marry- 
ing a  foreigner  ?  If  he  does  not  value  the  treasure  he  pos- 
sesses, will  he  i-efuse  to  bestow  it  upon  me  1  But  you  are  right, 
we  cannot  foresee  the  nature  of  the  obstacles  he  may  oppose  to 
our  wishes  and  our  prayers.  We  cannot  reckon  upon  the  fu- 
ture,— I  have  been  too  sanguine.  0  Gertrude,  how  could  I 
bear  to  lose  you  now?" 

"  0  yes,  you  would  bear  it,"  she  exchiimed,  "you  are  not 
weak  against  suffering.  You  walk  the  earth  with  a  charmed 
life,  and  despair  never  showed  its  wild  visage  in  your  path." 

There  was  a  mixture  of  tenderness  and  of  irritation  in  her 
manner  that  he  scarcely  understood.  She  dared  not  speak 
the  words  that  were  trembling  on  her  lips,  and  break  through 
the  barrier  that  he  seemed  to  regard  as  sacred.  If  he  had 
guessed  her  thoughts  he  might  have  soothed  her  feelings,  not 
by  tempting  her  to  defy  her  father's  authority,  but  by  assur 
ances  of  his  unalterable  fidelity  to  her,  as  long  as  she  re- 
mained unshackled  by  other  ties ;  but  the  necessity  of  such 
protestations  did  not  occur  to  him,  and  perhaps  he  felt  also 
some  scruples,  all  the  stronger  since  his  conversation  with  her 
mother,  in  binding  her  iijore  stringently  to  himself,  before  her 


LADT-BIRD.  215 

father's  will  was  ascertained.  He  knew  she  loved  him,  but  not 
how  fearfully  strong  was  the  passion  which  was  lying  in  her 
heart,  smoothed  at  present  into  repose  by  hope  and  by  his 
presence.  It  was  not  feebly  that  he  loved  her,  it  was  not 
coldly  that  he  contemplated  the  probability  of  losing  her. 
She  had  become  to  him  inexpressibly  dear,  and  to  have  given 
her  up  would  almost  have  broken  his  heart,  but  he  thought 
more  of  her  than  of  himself:  his  own  happiness  was  a  second- 
ary consideration  :  but  it  was  that  very  unselfishness,  that  very 
unconsciousness  of  the  unbounded  affection  he  had  inspired, 
that  made  him  abstain  from  speaking  the  words  which  she 
was  passionately  anxious  to  hear ;  and  deep  and  fervent  as 
was  his  love,  there  was  that  in  him  which  kept  down  with  a 
strong  hand  the  vehemence  of  the  flame.  His  heart  might 
break,  but  the  breaker  would  be  one  whom  he  loved  more  than 
the  object  of  an  earthly  passion,  and  at  whose  hands  he  would 
accept  the  keenest  blow  life  could  inflict. 

It  was  but  a  transient  cloud,  however,  that  passed  over 
that  day's  joy.  Again  they  returned  to  their  projects.  He 
could  not  believe  in  tyranny  or  unkindness — she  could  not 
now  believe  in  existence  without  him,  and  again  they  talked 
together  of  the  future.  Normandy  would  be  their  holiday  ; 
every  year  they  would  go  there ;  but  his  large  estate  in  one 
of  tlie  most  distressed  parts  of  Ireland,  which  he  had  inherited 
from  his  mother,  would  be  their  post  and  their  work,  their  in- 
terest and  their  duty.  Together  they  would  toil — together 
one  day  reap  on  earth  or  in  Heaven.  Then  he  would  take 
her  to  Paris — that  city  of  great  crimes  and  great  virtues — 
that  strange  battlefield  of  life  with  its  armies  in  presence; 
the  worst  of  Satan's  crew,  and  God's  elect  soldiers.  They 
talked  of  various  parts  of  the  world  which  thence  they  might 
visit  together.  He  spoke  of  Italy,  also,  but  with  less  enthu- 
siasm than  Maurice  had  done.  Rome  he  deeply  loved  ;  but 
the  luxurious  charms  of  the  Mediterranean  shores,  the  ener- 
vating nature  of  its  brilliant  climate,  the  versatile  character 
of  its  people,  was  not  to  him  as  attractive  as  it  had  been  to  the 
young  artist's  somewhat  congenial  disposition. 

They  wandered  together  through  every  alley  of  the  garden, 
and  into  the  park  till  late  that  afternoon.  Adrien  liked  tho 
old  Grange.  He  had  been  there  but  twice,  and  had  been  very 
happy  in  its  quiet  and  solemn  rooms,  its  stately  formal  gar- 
dens. He  had  gathered  there  the  flower  which  had  charmed 
his  fancy.     He  had  foujid  there  the  woman  who  had  touched 


216  LADY-BIRD.  » 

his  heart.  It  had,  also,  a  prestige  in  his  eyes  from  its  histori- 
cal associations,  and  Gertrude  had  never  told  him  how  she 
hated  it ;  indeed,  she  did  not  feel  to  hate  it  then ;  perhaps  one 
day  she  might  have  los^ed  it.  The  hours  went  by,  and  Adrien 
was  to  go.  They  stood  together  on  the  stone  steps  of  the  en- 
trance-door. "  In  about  six  weeks,"  he  said,  "I  shall  return 
from  Ireland,  and  your  father  will  be  at  home.  Then,  dearest 
Lady-Bird,  I  shall  be  here  again.  I  shall  see  you ;  for  what- 
ever be  his  decision  he  cannot  refuse  me  the  permission  to  see 
you  once  more.  It  may  be  a  most  painful  hour  for  us  both, 
but  meet  again  we  must,  so  this  is  no  farewell.  I  go  with  a 
heart  full  of  hope  in  the  future,  full  of  trust  in  you.  I  might 
have  written  this  very  day  to  your  father,  and  awaited  his  an- 
swer at  a  distance ;  but  I  think  my  words  may  plead  more 
effectually  than  a  letter.  The  chief  objection  he  wOuld  make 
to  our  marriage  would  probably  be  the  country  of  my  birth ; 
and  when  lie  hears  me  speak  your  language  that  prejudice 
might  vanish ;  and  then  again,  should  he  refuse  his  consent, 
he  might  forbid  my  coming  here,  but  if  I  am  here  he  cannot 
deny  me  that  parting  interview  which  would  be  necessary  to 
my  peace  and  to  yours." 

"  You  are  right,  you  are  quite  right,"  she  hurriedly  ex- 
claimed;  "remember,  Adrien,  these  fiiust  not  be  the  last 
words  that  we  speak  to  each  other.     There  is  that  in  my  heart 

which  must  not  be  trifled  with." She  put  her  hand  on 

her  forehead,  and  pressed  her  temples  tightly.  He  looked  at 
her  anxiously,  kissed  her  hand,  and  went  away. 

For  a  fortnight  Gertrude  saw  no  one  but  her  mother, 
whose  strength  was  every  day  diminishing.  She  began  to  feel 
very  uneasy  about  her,  and  nursed  her  now  with  devoted  ten- 
derness. The  doctor  and  Mr.  Irving,  the  priest  of  Stone 
houseleigh,  who  often  visited  them,  did  not  reassure  her. 
There  was  no  immediate  danger,  but  her  state  was  very  pre- 
carious, they  said,  and  all  agitation  must  be  carefully  avoided. 
Mary  Grey  about  that  time  came  one  day  to  see  her.  Thia 
painfully  recalled  to  her  mind  what  she  had  almost  forgotten, 
— the  conversation,  or  rather  the  scene  with  Maurice  in  the 
conservatory  at  Audley  Park.  She  looked  half-anxiously, 
half-curiously  at  Mary  to  see  if  she  could  read  in  her  face  any 
expression  indicating  a  knowledge  of  what  had  passed  ;  but 
could  not  satisfy  herself  on  that  point.  Mary  looked  pale  and 
thin,  but  not  unhappy.  Gertrude  inquired  after  Maurice,  and 
she  answered  quietly  that  he  was  better  in  health,  and  had  a 


\ 


I 


LADY-BIRD.  217 

jv^fessional  engagement  in  London  that  kept  him  there  al- 
most entirely,  and  answered  very  well. 

"  He  is  anxious  that  my  mother  and  I  should  establish 
ourselves  in  town,  and  at  his  age  it  is  such  an  object  that  he 
should  have  a  home,  that  we  are  thinking  of  doing  so." 

"  What,  leave  the  cottage  and  Stonehouseleigh  !  " 

Mary's  lips  quivered,  but  she  said  cheerfully,  "  Yes,  it  will 
be  an  effort ;  but  as  my  mother  is  willing  to  make  it  for  her 
son,  it  is  clearly  right  I  should  not  object." 

She  did  not  usually  call  Maurice  her  mother's  son ;  and 
Gertrude  understood  that  her  doing  so  now  was  meant  to 
convey  to  her  that  this  change  of  plans  had  nothing  to  do 
with  any  project  of  marriage.  The  recollection  of  her  own 
'last  interview  with  him  made  her  shy  with  Mary :  she  could 
ftot  but  feel  that  kind  and  friendly  as  her  manner  was,  she 
must  consider  her  as  a  person  who  had  done  her  an 
injury,  however  involuntary  that  injury  might  have  been  ; 
and  her  conscience  did  not  altogether  acquit  her  in  that  re- 
spect, when  it  brought  to  her  recollection  the  many  occa- 
sions in  which  she  might  have  checked,  instead  of  encouraged, 
the  kind  of  romantic  homage  which,  since  his  return  from  Italy. 
he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  paying  her.  This  consciousness 
gave  an  appearancee  of  constraint  to  her  manner,  and  she  was 
more  grave  and  silent  than  usuaL 

"  Is  it  soon  that  you  will  move  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  time  is  not  yet  fixed,"  Mary  replied,  "but  it  will 
cot  be  for  some  weeks  at  all  events  :  not  till  the  lease  of  the 
cottage  is  up." 

"  I  am  sure  this  is  a  great  trial  to  you." 

"  A  great  trial,  dear  Miss  Lifford  !  No,  indeed  ;  if  any, 
a  very  little  one.  I  should  be  more  sorry  to  think  that  Mau- 
rice wanted  us,  and  that  we  could  not  be  with  him.  When 
he  marries,  we  may,  perhaps,  return  to  Stonehouseleigh." 

She  had  said  this  last  phrase  with  a  steady  voice,  but  she 
could  not  help  tlie  colour  rising  a  little  in  her  cheek.  Slie 
was  afraid  that  (jcrtrude  would  ask  for  an  explanation.  But 
the  latter  only  kissed  her,  and  said,  '•  Marj^,  would  that  I  were 
as  good  as  you.  The  next  time  I  sit  near  the  wishing-well, 
that  shall  be  my  wish." 

"A  niggardly  one,  indeed.  But  tell  me,  dear  Miss  Lifford, 
is  it  true  that  your  faithful  Jane  leaves  you.  I  was  so  sorry  to 
hear  it,  for  a  friend  of  that  kind  who  has  been  with  you  so  manj 
years,  and  is  so  very  mueh  attached  to  you,  must  be  a  losa." 


218  LADY-BIRD. 

"  It  is  indeed  a  great  loss  ;  but  she  is  going  to  be  married, 
and  must  settle  in  London  with  her  husband.  Her  parents 
will  live  near  them  also,  and  I  hope  she  will  be  comfortable ; 
but  I  shall  miss  hev  sadly.  She  is  one  of  the  few  persons  in 
the  world  who  cares  for  me,  and  I  think  everybody  is  leaving 

me.     Father  LiiFord  is  gone,  and  mamma "     She  turned 

away  for  an  instant,  and  then  said  quickly  :  "  But  I  will  not 
talk  sadly.  There  may  be  great  happiness  in  store  for  us  all. 
I  think  I  am  growing  very  sensible,  Mary.  I  dare  say  you 
think  it  is  high  time  I  should.     So  do  I." 

"  Now,  you  are  Lady-Bird  again,"  Mary  said,  with  a  smile  ; 
"  I  hardly  know  you  again  when  you  have  not  your  old  frowns 
nor  your  old  smiles." 

"  I  have  learnt  and  unlearnt  a  great  deal  lately — '  inais 
chasscz  h  naturel  il  revient  au  galoj)^  and  the  sight  of  your 
dear  little  demure  face  provokes  me,  I  believe,  to  talk  nonsense 


again." 


They  conversed  together  for  some  time  in  that  strain,  and 
then  parted  as  good  friends  as  they  had  ever  been  in  their  lives. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  All  day  witliln  the  dreamy  houpe 

The  doors  upon  their  liingcs  creaked, 
The  bine  fly  sung  i'  the  pane  ;  the  mouse 

Behind  the  mouldering  w.iinsco.'vt  shrieked, 
Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 
Old  faces  glimmer 'd  through  tlie  doors, 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  lloors, 
Old  voices  called  her  fl'orn  without. 
She  only  said  '  My  life  is  dreary ; 

He  Cometh  not,'  slie  said  ; 
blie  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead.' " 

Tenntsom. 

At  the  end  of  about  three  weeks,  Gertrude's  father  re 
turned.  She  could  not  see  hini  again  without  emotion ;  not, 
alas  !  that  she  felt  the  least  affection  for  him,  but  that  she  con- 
nected his  arrival  with  so  much  that  was  important  to  her, 
that  the  first  sight  of  his  face  was  a  kind  of  signal  to  her  of 
the  consequences  that  wore  to  follow,  and  her  heart  beat  when 
she  went  to  meet  him  on  the  stairs.  He  received  her  as  gra- 
ciously as  he  ever  did,  and  that  is  not  saying  much.     There 


LADY-BIHU.  219 

was  neither  pleasure  nor  displeasure  in  his  face.  "  How  do 
you  do,  Gertrude  ;  is  your  mother  pretty  well  to-day  1 "  was 
his  salutation.  And  when  they  met  at  dinner,  the  conversa- 
tion between  them  was  as  civil  and  as  proper  as  possible.  He 
looked  at  her  once  or  twice  more  attentively  than  usual.  It 
did  not  seem  to  escape  him  that  she  was  more  beautiful  than 
ever  ;  that  since  she  had  been  at  Audley  Park,  she  dressed 
more  becomingly  than  she  used  to  do,  and  that  her  manner, 
while  it  was  as  graceful  as  usual,  had  more  aphmb. 

A  day  or  two  after  his  arrival,  he  made  her  for  the  first 
time  a  present.  It  was  a  diamond  necklace  in  a  case,  on 
which  the  arms  of  the  family  were  engraved.  She  thanked 
him,  but  neither  did  his  manner  of  giving  it,  or  the  nature  of 
the  gift  afford  her  any  particular  pleasure.  Her  mother  was 
so  feeble  now  that  she  did  not  venture  to  speak  to  her  often  of 
the  subject  nearest  to  her  heart,  for  she  perceived  that  it 
always  called  up  a  flush  in  her  cheek,  and  a  look  of  too 
much  excitement  in  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Lifford  was  agitated  by 
the  doubt  whether  she  would  be  furthering  or  hindering  the 
object  of  her  most  intense  wishes  by  mentioning  it  to  her 
husband.  Her  natural  timidity  inclined  lier  to  silence ;  but 
her  anxiety  about  Gertrude  made  the  suspense  painfully  try- 
ing. The  time  of  Adrien's  return  was  approaching.  Twice 
she  had  forced  herself  to  speak  of  his  visits  to  LifFord  Grange, 
and  to  say  that  she  had  seen  liim.  The  first  time  she  did  so 
her  husband  made  no  comment  on  the  subject;  but  on  the 
next  occasion,  he  observed  in  a  sneering  tone,  "  I  thought  you 
were  never  well  enough  to  receive  strangers.  I  am  glad  ^'ou 
are  so  much  stronger ;  or,  perhaps  your  curiosity  to  see  this 
French  author  was  irresistible  !  " 

"  He  is  a  man  of  very  good  family,"  the  poor  woman  mur- 
mured faintly,  with  her  fearfully  bright  eyes  fixed  on  his 
countenance,  or  rather  face  :  for  countenance  he  had  none,  ex- 
cept when  unusually  excited. 

"Indeed!"  he  ejaculated,  lifting  \i\)  his  eyebrows,  in  a 
manner  that  implied  neither  assent  nor  dissent. 

"  Yes."  she  persisted,  "  your  uncle  says  the  d'Arbergs  were 
:i  very  old  German  family.  His  father  was  naturalized  iu 
France." 

He  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window.  She  felt  that  the 
opportunity  of  speaking  was  lost,  and  yet  how  difficult  again 
to  recur  to  the  subject.  Then  she  also  feared  that  if  lie  were 
averse  to  Adrien's  proposals  he  would  refuse  to  see  him  when 


220  LADY-BIRD. 

he  came,  and  she  could  not  believe  that  even  Mr.  Lifford  could 
be  wholly  insensible  to  the  influence  of  his  manner,  and  of  his 
words.  Once  she  said  something  vague  about  Gertrude's 
future  destiny.  He  briefly  answered,  '■  When  the  time  comes 
for  a  decision,  I  shall  inform  you  of  my  views  upon  that  point." 
Gertrude,  meanwhile,  passed  the  days  by  her  mother's  bed,  for 
she  seldom  left  it  now  ;  and  during  tliose  silent  hours  of 
watching,  one  only  thought  incessantly  occupied  her.  She 
looked  alternately  from  that  dying  form  to  the  Duke  of 
Gandia's  picture.  It  was  so  strikingly  like  Adrien,  that  she 
forgot  it  was  not  really  his  portrait.  These  two  images  filled 
her  mind ;  they  were  connected  together  in  her  heart ;  fear 
and  hope,  the  pa.st  and  the  future,  were  blended  in  those  long 
meditations.  Day  followed  day,  Mrs.  Liff'ord  spoke  less,  but 
looked  with  more  intense  afl"ection  at  her  child.  Six  weeks 
had  elapsed,  and  there  was  in  her  face  each  time  that  Ger- 
trude entered  her  room  a  mute  inquiry,  to  which  no  answer 
was  returned  but  a  forced  and  painful  smile,  and  nothing 
changed  around  them. 

It  was  getting  late  in  November ;  and  no  one  had  been  at 
liiflbrd  Grange, — not  a  single  letter  had  been  received  by 
Gertrude  or  her  mother,  except  one  or  two  from  Father  Lifford 
and  from  Edgar.  They  were  still  detained  in  Spain  by 
protracted  business,  but  Edgar  was  (juitc  recovered.  Once 
Gertrude  had  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  in  the  avenue.  Her 
mother  was  asleep  with  her  hand  locked  in  hers,  after  a  night 
and  day  of  suffering  and  unrest.  It  was  towards  dusk  ;  she 
did  not  venture  to  disturb  her,  though  every  nerve  was  trem- 
bling with  excitement,  and  she  feared  that  the  beating  of  her 
heart  must  awaken  her,  so  loud  did  it  appear  to  herself  After 
a  little  less  than  an  hour  the  same  sound  was  heard,  and  Mrs. 
Lifford  moved,  and  murmured  something  in  her  sleep.  Ger- 
trude disengaged  her  hand,  and  walked  softly  to  the  window. 
Sli(^  drew  the  curtain,  and  looked  out.  It  was  a  cold  clear 
night.  The  moon  was  shining  amongst  the  trees ;  she  saw  a 
carriage  passing.  A  faint  feeling  came  over  her,  and  yet  she 
could  almost  have  smiled  at  her  own  folly.  Solitary  as  was 
the  life  at  Lift'ord  Grange,  it  was  not,  however,  such  a  very 
unusual  event  that  a  carriage  should  come  to  its  door.  The 
doctor,  the  priest,  the  clergyman,  the  agent,  occasionally  drove 
up  to  it.  At  dinner,  she  asked  her  father  if  Dr.  liedington 
had  called  upon  him  that  afternoon. 

"Why?''  he  asked,  "has  he  not  been  to  your  mother  to- 
day?" 


LADY-BIRD.  221 

"  Yes,  this  morning,  but  as  I  heard  a  carriage  iu  the  park 
two  hours  ago,  I  thought  he  might  have  come  a  second   time. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,"  was  the  answer. 

Jane  was  gone,  and  she  had  a  foreign  maid  who  had  onlj 
been  with  her  a  few  days  ;  it  was  of  no  use  to  ask  her.  Lato 
that  evening,  as  she  was  going  to  bed,  she  met  on  the  stairs 
an  old  butler  who  had  been  a  long  time  in  the  ftimily. 

With  a  trembling  voice  she  inquired  who  had  come  to  the 
house  in  a  carriage,  that  afternoon.  " I  don't  know.  Miss,'.' 
was  his  answer,  '•  I  took  up  a  card  to  Mr.  Liflford,  and  I 
shov/ed  the  gentleman  up,  but  I  did  not  see  the  name."  Ger- 
trude turned  very  pale,  and  leant  against  the  banister. 

"  Did  he  stay  long,  Marston?  "  she  asked  in  a  faint  voice. 

"Some  time.  Miss." 

With  cheeks  that  burned  like  hot  coals  with  shame  and 
pride,  she  asked,  "  Was  this  gentleman  tall  and  dark?  " 

The  old  man  looked  at  lier  with  surprise.  "I  did  not  ob- 
serve particularly,  but  I  think  tlie  gentleman  was  tall." 

'■  She  darted  av/ay,  and  went  into  the  library — lier  old 
haunt.  She  put  her  candlestick  on  the  chimney-piece,  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  hurried  steps.  She  could 
not  rest  ;  she  could  not  enter  her  mother's  room, — she  could 
not  breathe  in  this  state  of  suspense.  It  was  like  a  nightmare. 
She  heard  her  father's  voice  on  the  stairs  giving  some  orders 
to  the  servants,  and  then  the  noise  of  the  door  of  his  study,  as 
he  closed  it.  With  a  feverish  courage  she  snatched  her  candle, 
and  went  down  stairs  ;  she  paused  a  minute  before  the  door, 
and  tlien  with  a  desperate  effort  knocked. 

Her  father  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  He  said  '•  Come  in,"  but  gave  a 
start  when  he  saw  his  daughter  standing  before  him,  and  looked 
at  her  with  astonishment.  '•  Forgive  me,"  slie  said,  "'for  inter- 
rupting you;  and  still  more,  forgive  me  for  asking  what  it 
concerns  my  peace  to  know.  It  must  seem  very  strange  to 
you  ;  but  by  my  mother's  sick  bed  I  must  be  calm,  and  there- 
fore forgive  me  if  I  ask  who  called  upon  you  today?" 
She  joined  together  her  hands,  and  clasped  them  tightly — her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground.  She  did  not  see  that  her 
father's  face  flushed  in  that  moment.  He  took  a  card  from 
the  chimney,  and  threw  it  on  the  table  before  her.  She  saw  a 
name  that  was  not  Adrien's,  and  all  her  courage  vanislicd. 
She  knew  not  exactly  what  she  had  hoped  or  feared.  She  felt 
at  once  relieved  and  disappointed  and  unable  to  utter  anothei 


222  LADY-BIRD. 

word    but  murmured  something  unintelligible,  and  left   the 
room 

The  next  day  came,  and  the  next,  each  like  the  last,  except 
that  both  the  mother's  and  the  daughter's  cheeks  gi-ew  paler, 
though  with  a  different  paleness  ;  that  the  mother's  mute  inqui- 
ries were  accompanied  with  dejection,  and  the  daughter's  smiles 
— when  she  smiled — were  painful  to  behold.  Another  month 
passed  by,  and  Adrien  had  neither  come  nor  written.  That  he 
was  ill  was  possible  ;  that  he  was  dead  was  possible,  too,  Ger- 
trude felt  with  a  pang  of  terror, — for  how  would  the  news 
reach  her  in  that  living  tomb  where  she  was  languishing?  She 
sent  for  Mary,  and  asked  her,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  if 
she  had  heard  anything  from  Maurice  of  M.  d'Arberg.  She 
had  not ;   and  there  the  question  dropped. 

"  Maurice."  she  said  a  moment  after, — "  Maurice  would 
have  been  sure  to  tell  you  if  anything  had  happened  to  M. 
d'Arberg." 

Mary  started.  '•  Happened  to  him  !  Have  you  heard  that 
anything  has  ?  " 

Gertrude  forced  a  smile,  and  said,  "  I  dreamed  the  other 
day  that  he  was  dead.  For  the  curiosity  of  the  thing,  write 
and  ask  Maurice  if  he  knows  anything  of  him." 

Mary  did  so.  The  answer  did  not  come  quickly ;  such 
answers  never  do .  but  several  days  after,  she  showed  Ger- 
trude the  letter  she  had  received.  It  contained  these  words : 
"  I  have  not  heard  from  M.  d'Arberg  for  some  time;  but  he  is 
certainly  not  dead,  for  a  letter  I  had  from  Paris  a  week  ago, 
speaks  of  his  being  there,  and  in  such  a  frame  of  mind  that  I 
have  little  doubt  my  old  prophecy  will  come  true,  and  that  he 
will  end  by  becoming  a  priest."  Gertrude's  heart  died  within 
her;  but  her  spirit  soon  rose  with  indignation.  "God  will  not 
accept  a  traitor's  devotion,"  she  inwardly  exclaimed,  ''nor  the 
Church  receive  the  vows  of  a  heartless  deceiver."  But  with 
that  burst  of  passion,  her  fears  subsided.  It  could  not  be  ;  she 
had  wronged  him  by  the  doubt.  Forsake  her  without  a  word 
— it  was  impossible  ! — it  was  monstrous  !  She  went  home 
and  when  her  mother  took*her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips, 
she  whispered,  "  He  is  at  Paris  ;  affairs  may  have  obliged  him 
to  go  there  from  Ireland.  It  is  strange;  but  hope  is  strong  in 
my  heart.  Madrc  mia^  did  you  not  say  after  seeing  him,  '  I 
would  trust  him,  on  tlie  faith  of  his  eyes,  not  with  my  life  only, 
but  with  the  child  of  my  soul  ''  " 

"  Yes,"  murmured  the  mother    "  I  Iiave  trusted  Ii!qi,  God 


LADY-BIRD.  22S 

knows  !  But  too  much,  perhaps.  Gertrude,  I  am  very  ill.  I 
have  not  been  much  to  thee,  my  child  ;  but  yet,  what  wilt  thou 
do  without  me?  " 

'•  Fear  not  for  me,  my  mother.  There  is  in  a  deep  love  a 
strange  independence.  Paradise  on  earth  with  him,  or  without 
him  death, — preceded  by  the  more  or  less  long  agony,  called 
life." 

These  were  not  soothing  conversations  for  a  sick  room.  To 
do  Gertrude  justice,  it  was  seldom  that  such  vehement  expres- 
sions escaped  her  in  her  mother's  presence.  She  generally 
kept  down  her  feelings  with  the  iron  rigidity  of  her  strong 
will,  but  these  emotions  and  this  continual  constraint  were 
wearing  her  out.  If  the  society  at  Audley  Park  could  have 
seen  her  they  would  have  been  astonished  at  the  change  ;  and 
Mary  Grey  on  Sundays,  when  she  sometimes  had  a  glimpse  of 
her,  was  startled  at  her  appearance. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"Joy  for  the  freed  one,  slio  inijilit  not  stay 
When  the  crown  had  fallen  from  her  hfc  away. 
She  niiglit  not  linger,  a  weary  thing. 
A  dove  with  no  home  for  its  broken  wing, 
Thrown  on  the  harshness  of  alien  skies 
That  know  not  its  own  land's  ineloilies, 
From  the  long  heart  withering  early  gone; 
Her  task  is  done." 

Mrs.  IIemans. 

"There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall; 

The  guilt  of  blood  i.s  .it  your  door; 
Yon  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  gall; 
You  held  your  course  witliout  remorse." 

Tennyson. 

A  DAY  came  on  which  Mrs.  Lifford  felt  herself  still  weaker  than 
usual.  She  sent  for  Mr.  Erving,  the  priest  of  Stonehouselcigh, 
and  he  stayed  with  her  some  time.  Afterwards  she  asked  to 
see  her  husband.  Gertrude  was  sitting  in  the  dressing-room 
when  he  went  in.  She  could  hear  their  voices,  though  the  door 
was  closed.  A  word  here  and  there  reached  her  ear.  Once  sho 
heard  her  mother  exclaim,  "  No,  it  is  not  possible, — say  you 
did  not  do  so."  Another  time.  '•  I  tell  you  Henry,  that  you 
have  done  wrong,  very  wrong.  You  do  not  know  what  you 
have  done."     Then  there  was  a  low  moaning  like  the  cry  of 


224  LADT-BIRD. 

physical  pain,  or  of  an  intense  inward  suffering.  An  instant 
afterwards  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  Mr.  Lifford,  with  a 
face  as  pale  as  death,  said,  "  Gertrude,  go  to  your  mother, — 
she  is  dying."  He  rang  the  bell  with  violence,  and  rushed 
down  stairs. 

When  Gertrude  saw  her  mother's  face  she  felt  at  once  it 
was  no  vain  alarm.  He  was  not  likely  to  have  been  startled 
too  soon.  Mrs.  Lifford  was  gasping  for  breath,  and  could  only 
hold  out  her  arms  to  her  child.  She  spoke  only  two  words 
during  the  few  minutes  that  life  was  trembling  on  the  verge 
of  death.  Once  she  looked  up  to  Heaven,  as  she  pressed  Ger- 
trude's head  closer  to  her   breast,  and  murmured  the  word 

"Father;"  and  then  in   her  ear   she  whispered  '"Try " 

More  she  could  not  utter,  but  gazed  into  her  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment with  an  unutterable  expression  of  tenderness,  fear,  and 
supplication, — and  then  she  died.  That  heart  which  had 
throbbed  so  long  ceased  to  beat,  and  the  spirit  returned  to  the 
God  who  had  given,  tried,  and  exalted  it,  in  the  fiery  furnace 
of  suffering. 

When  Mr.  Lifford  returned  to  that  room,  followed  by 
others,  he  stood  an  instant  at  the  door,  and  a  cold  shudder 
passed  through  his  frame.  His  daughter  turned  her  face  for 
one  second  towards  him,  pointed  to  the  form  of  her  whom  she 
still  held  in  her  arms,  and  in  a  tone  of  unnatural  calmness  ut- 
tered the  word,  "  Dead."  She  did  not  add,  but  in  that  dread- 
ful moment  her  eyes  said,  ''  You  have  killed  her  !"  With  a 
wild  and  piercing  cry  she  turned  from  him,  and,  as  he  slowly 
approached  she  stretched  out  her  arm  behind  her,  as  if  to 
keep  him  away.  It  is  possible  that  at  such  a  moment  even 
his  heart  might  have  been  touched  and  softened;  but  to  be 
thus  repulsed,  and  in  the  presence  of  others,  av/akcned  the 
bitterest  and  most  vindictive  feelings  in  his  mind.  He  went 
away,  and  she  remained  alone  with  her  misery — alone  though 
others  spoke  to  her.  Alone,  then,  and  for  days  afterwards. 
If  her  grief  had  been  simple  in  its  nature  it  would  have  been 
ess  dreadful  ;  but  fear,  suspense,  resentment  against  the 
father  whom  she  ought  to  have  loved,  and  against  one  whom 
she  did  love  with  all  the  strength  of  her  soul,  were  mixed 
with  her  sorrow,  and  embittered  every  tear  that  fell  in  that 
dark  room.  She  would  not  move  from  the  foot  of  that  bed, 
from  that  spot  where  her  father  never  came  again.  She  would 
not  look  at  the  picture  opposite  to  it,  on  which  she  had  so 
often  gazed  ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground,  and  they 
seldom  shed  tears. 


LAUT-TJIRD.  225 

The  priest  came  and  prayed  by  the  bed-side  ;  and  for  her 
mother's   soul   she  prayed  with   intense  fervour,  but  not  for 
herself     It  seemed   as   if  all   her  feelings  were    suspended 
within  her  till  she  could  learn  her  fate,  and  the  rigid  endur- 
ance of  that  suspense  was   offered  up   as   a   sacrifice  in  that 
chamber   of  mourning.     When   the   priest   addressed  to  her 
words  of  consolation,  she  raised  her  eyes  for  an  instant,  and 
said,  "  Yes — soon,  perhaps,  I  may  feel  that."     And  he  saw 
that  the  seed  did    not  penetrate   the   surface,  and  he   spoke 
ofteuer  to  God  of  that  poor  child,  and  less  for  the  present  of 
God  to  her.     Then  came  the  day  of  the  funeral,  with  all  it3 
gloomy  grandeur  and  solemn   pomp.     So   the   pride   of  the 
living  had  willed  it.     The   ruling  passion   strong  even  in  the 
face  of  death.     The  prayers  and  sacrifices  of  the  Church, — 
the  same  for  the  rich  and  for  the  poor, — were  offered  up  for 
that  humble  spirit  which  had  been  indeed  poor  in   the  midst 
of  riches,    but   the    husband   who    had    not   loved    her,  and 
scarcely  wept  over  her  corpse,  had  it  consigned  to  the  grave 
with  all  the  pomp  and   circumstance  of  human  pride.     Ger- 
trude's soul  sickened  within  her  at  the  sight  of  banners  and 
escutcheons  by  the  side  of  the  shrine  which   held  the  mortal 
remains  of  her  mother.     During  the  service  for  the  dead  (at 
which  they  both  assisted),  she  once  looked  towards  her  father, 
with   eyes  almost   blinded   by  tears.      His  were  dry,  and  it 
might  be  accident,  but  they  seemed  complacently  fixed  on  the 
shield  on  which  were  quartered  her  arms  and  his.    She  turned 
away,  and  hid   her  face  in  her  hands.      Perhaps  she   prayed 
that  she  might  not  hate  him.     The  funeral  was  over,  with  all 
its    soothing   religious    duties,    with    all    its    stately  worldly 
pomp.     Onoe  there  came  into  her  mind  lines  which  she  used 
to  repeat  ye^TS  ago — not  applicable,  but  akin  to  what  she  felt 
tbat  day : 

And  they  bore  away  the  royal  dead 

With  requiems  to  his  rest, 

With  knightly  phir:es  and  banners, 

All  waving  in  the  wind  ; 

But  a  woman's  broken  lieart  was  left 

In  its  lone  despair  behind." 

The  next  day  Gertrude  went  for  the  first  time  into  the 
drawing-room.  She  was  in  deep  mourning.  There  was  not 
the  least  trace  of  colour  in  her  cheeks ;  the  stern  expressiou 
of  her  features  was  unrelieved  by  any  of  those  soft  shades  or 

15 


226  LADY-BIRD. 

playful  lights  which  used  to  flit  over  her  face  with  such 
indescribable  charm.  Whatever  light  there  was  in  it  now 
came  from  the  excessive  brightness  of  her  eyes.  She  had  not 
*:hed  tears  enough  to  dim  their  brilliancy,  and  there  was  a  fire 
burning  in  them  which  had  been  fed,  not  quenched  by  sorrow. 
She  was  resolved  to  have  an  explanation  with  her  father  ;  she 
must  know  if  Adrien  had  abandoned  her — with  or  without 
reason.  She  must  know  if  there  was  any  hope  left  for  her  of 
happiness  on  this  side  the  grave.  She  felt  the  most  profound 
conviction  that  the  scene  which  had  been  fatal  to  her  mother 
had  had  reference  to  her  destiny.  In  some  way  or  other  he 
had  laid  his  cold  hand  upon  it,  and  blasted  it  by  his  touch. 

When  the  post  came  in,  he  received  a  letter,  which  seemed 
to  pre-occupy  him  considerably.  As  he  left  the  room  he  said. 
'•  I  wish  you  would  come  to  my  study  in  about  an  hour,  as  I 
have  something  of  importance  to  communicate  to  you."'  A 
sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  came  over  Gerti-ude  at  that 
moment ;  he  had  perhaps  heard  from  Adrien, — her  suspicions, 
her  fears,  her  misery  might  have  been  groundless.  She  tried 
to  be  calm  ;  she  sat  opposite  the  clock,  watching  the  minute- 
hand  as  it  went  round, — too  slowly  as  she  felt  at  one  moment, — 
too  fast  as  the  hour  was  nearly  elapsed.  When  it  struck  the 
appointed  time  she  slowly  walked  to  the  study. 

Mr.  Liiford  was  sitting  at  his  table.  There  was  a  shade 
of  embarrassment  in  his  manner,  and  he  cleared  his  throat 
two  or  three  times  before  beginning  to  speak.  "  I  have 
received  a  letter  this  morning,"  he  said,  "  which  has  somewhat 
embarrassed  me,  as  it  may  be  disagreeable  to  you,  as  well  as 
to  myself,  to  have  any  exertion  to  make  so  soon  after  your 
poor  mother's  death ;  but  it  is  inevitable,  and  as  the  circum- 
stance I  allude  to  is  of  paramount  importance  to  you.  I  must 
at  once  speak  on  a  subject  which  I  had  intended  some  time 
longer  to  defer.  You  may  have  heard  of  the  family  of 
Mirasole,  with  whom  we  have  had  many  family  affairs  to 
discuss.  I  saw  the  Marquis  de  Mirasole  in  Spain,  and  came 
to  an  understanding  with  him  on  several  points  of  great 
importance  to  your  brother's  fortune.  Amongst  others  it  was 
agreed  upon  between  us  that  a  marriage  between  you  and  his 
son  would  be  highly  desirable,  and  having  assured  myself  that 
the  young  man  would  in  every  respect  be  a  suitable  husband 
for  you,  I  gave  my  consent  to  the  proposal,  and  nothing  can  be 
more  satisfactory  than  all  the  conditions  of  fortune  and  posi- 
tion that  it  affords.     Besides  the  advantages  to  yourself  there 


LADY-BIRD.  22? 

are  others,  as  I  said  before,  of  vast  consequence  to  your 
brother,  and  I  rejoice  that  the  interests  of  both  thus  coincide 
But  what  I  scarcely  rejoice  at  is,  that  M.  de  Mirasole,  whom 
I  expected  here  but  not  quite  so  soon,  has  in  this  letter 
announced  his  arrival,  and  that  he  will  be  here  to-morrow 
morning.  However,  as  he  cannot  be  considered  henceforward 
as  a  stranger  by  us,  it  will  not  be  thought  extraordinary  that 
we  should  receive  him  even  at  this  early  period  of  our  mourn- 
ing, and  I  hope  that  his  attentions  and  the  new  duties  you 
will  enter  upon  before  long  will  prevent  your  giving  way  to  an 
excessive  depression  of  spirits." 

Mr.  Lifford  had  said  all  this  without  once  looking  at  his 
daughter,  a  mode  of  proceeding  which  was  rather  habitual  to 
him,  especially  when  addressing  her.  As  he  did  not  now 
receive  any  answer  he  was  obliged  to  raise  his  eyes  towards 
her. 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough,"  she  then  said,  fixing  hers 
steadily  upon  him,  "to  answer  me  one  question?  Have  you 
received  no  other  proposal  of  this  kind  but  the  one  you 
speak  of  ? " 

He  seemed  to  hesitate  for  an  instant,  and  then  answered, 
"  None  that  deserved  consideration." 

"  Then  you  have  received  proposals,"  she  said  in  the  same 
calm  manner,  "  from  Adrien  d'Arberg?  " 

"  The  gentleman  you  mention  did  me  that  honour,"  ho 
answered  with  a  sneer. 

"  And  you  refused  those  proposals  without  consulting  my 
mother  or  me  ?  " 

"  I  did  so,  Miss  Lifford.  Pray  what  is  the  drift  of  these 
questions  ?  " 

"  Bear   with    me    a   moment.       How   long   asro    did   thia 


o 


happen  1  " 

"  It  may  be  four  or  five  weeks  ago." 

"  M.  d'Arberg  was  here  then?  " 

"  He  was." 

"  And  you  denied  it !  "  she  exclaimed. 

Mr.  Lifford  turned  pale  with  anger  and  said,  "  If  I  evaded 
your  inquiries  on  that  occasion  it  was  from  the  wish  to  spare 
your  mother  unnecessary  agitation." 

"  And  you  refused  him,  then,  without  consulting  her  or 
me?  What  did  you  say  to  him?"  She  uttered  these  last 
words  with  her  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  and  her  lips  tightly 
compressed. 


228  LADY-BIRD. 

"  That  lie  did  me  much  honour,  but  that  I  had  other  vievrs 
and  intentions." 

"  Did  he  ask  to  see  me,  or  her  ? "  she  said,  clasping  a 
small  picture  of  her  mother,  which  she  wore  round  her  neck. 

"  These  questions  are  unnecessary.  Pray  dismiss  that 
subject  from  your  thoughts  at  once." 

"  Dismiss  it !  "  she  slowly  repeated.  "  Dismiss  it !  Haa 
it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  there  are  thoughts  which  will  not 
be  dismissed  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  patience  to  listen  to  any  folly  of  this  nature. 
From  your  birth  you  have  irritated  me.  Abstain  from  doinp 
so  now.  There  are  points  on  which  I  cannot  be  thwarted  with 
impunity." 

"And  you  imagine  that  I  shall  accept  a  husband  at  your 
hands.  You  think  that  I  shall  submit  to  you  in  a  matter,  not 
merely  of  life  or  death,  but  of  honour  and  of  dishonour.  That 
I  shall  smile  on  the  stranger  you  have  brought  here  to  woo 
me  over  my  mother's  grave,  and  stand  with  him  at  the  altar 
with  a  lie  on  my  lips  and  despair  in  my  heart  ?  You  have 
embittered  my  childhood,  you  have   clouded  my  youth,  you 

have "     Here  she  stopped  short ;  even  in  the  passion  of 

that  moment  she  trembled  at  the  dreadful  words  she  was 
about  to  utter,  and  clasping  her  throat,  went  on  :  "  You  have 
endangered  the  happiness,  the  peace,  the  virtue  of  your  child, 
but  I  tell  you,  father,  that  you  have  not  the  power  to  break 
my  heart.  I  shall  be  true  to  him  on  whom  my  mother's 
dying  blessing  rests,  to  him  whose  image  at  this  moment 
stands  between  me  and  despair.  If  I  were  never  to  see  him 
again — if  I  had  not  the  strength  of  that  hope  I  should  tremble 
for  myself " 

"  You  may  tremble,  then,  for  there  is  little  prospect  that 
you  will  ever  behold  again  the  presumptuous  suitor  who  dared 
to  thrust  himself  into  my  house  in  my  absence,  and  even  into 
your  mother's  presence.     Her  deplorable  weakness— — " 

"  0,  for  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  speak  of  her,"  Gertrude 
cried  as  she  wrune:  her  hands  in  almost  intolerable  emotion. 
"  I  dare  not  think  of  her,  for  I  would  forget  that  scene — that 
cry " 

"  And  who  but  you,"  he  exclaimed,  "  hurried  your  mother 
to  the  grave  ? — you  and  this  wretched  man  whom  I  forbid  yon 
ever  to  name  again  ?  " 

She  stood  opposite  to  him,  drawn  up  to  her  full  height, 
her  lips  as  white  as  a  sheet  and  each  muscle  of  her  framo 
rigid. 


LADY-BIRD^  229 

•'  You  were  right  in  saying  that  you  were  not  to  be  thwart- 
ed with  impunity.  The  words  you  have  uttered  will  haunt  mo 
continually.  You  are  sufficiently  revenged  :  but  listen  to  me 
now.  I  will  not  marry  M.  dc  Mira.sole.  I  will  not  be  made 
a  sacrifice  to  the  furtherance  of  your  views  for  Edgar.  1  will 
not  break  the  promises  I  have  made." 

"  Ah,  this  honourable  man  has  prevaricated  then.  He  told 
me  you  were  bound  by  no  promise." 

"  He  gave  me  up  then  !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  such 
anguish  that  even  Mr.  Lifford  started  at  the  sound.  But  he 
thought  the  moment  favourable,  and  drawing  a  French  news- 
paper from  a  heap  on  his  table,  he  put  it  under  her  eyes,  and 
pointed  to  a  passage.      She  read  the  following  words  :  — 

"  Nous  apprenons  avcc  un  vif  interet  que  le  Comte 
Adrien  (V Arherg^  auteur  des  "  Essais  PJiilonopltiques  sur  le 
Chrisf/ianisme"  apres  avoir  c(d6^  par  un  acte  formel,  ses 
propricU'S  en  Brctagne  au  Comte.  Henri d''  Arberg^wn frere^ 
s^est  rendu  au  seminairc  d'  Orl{;ans,  ddcidi  a  suivre  la  voca- 
tion quipora/it  depuis  longtemps  lui  etre  reserv<:e,  et  d  entrer 
dans  le  sacerdoce  dont  ilformera,  saiis  aucun  doute^  un  des 
plus  beaux  ornements?''  * 

After  reading  these  words  Gertrude  remained  silent ;  her 
father  watched  her  for  a  moment,  and  thought  he  had  attained 
his  purpose,  for  the  vehemence  of  her  excitement  seemed  at  an 
end.  She  looked  almost  as  calm  and  as-  stern  as  himself,  and 
in  an  instant  left  the  room.  Perhaps  if  he  had  remembered 
at  that  moment  what  he  had  felt  himself  on  the  day  that  Lady 
Clara  dismissed  him,  and  while  he  went  to  the  opera  as  usual, 
and  sat  in  a  box  opposite  to  her  without  flinching,  or  betray- 
ing a  symptom  of  what  he  was  enduring,  he  might  have  guessed 
at  what  was  passing  in  his  daughter's  heart.  Her  anger  was 
calm,  but  it  was  fearful.  The  cup  was  full,  and  that  day  it  had 
overflowed.  Duty,  principle,  conscience  were  silenced  by  a 
resentment  deep  and  strong  as  the  nature  that  it  swayed.  She 
was  his  victim.     Her  will  had  been  vain  against  his.     He  had 

*  "  "We  have  been  much  interested  in  learning  that  tlie  Count  Adrien 
d'Arberg,  the  author  of  "  Philosophical  Essays  on  Christianity,"  after  hav- 
ing concluded  the  arrangwment  of  his  atiairs  by  the  formal  surrender  ot  hia 
property  in  Brittany  to  his  brother,  the  Count  Henri  d'Arberg,  has  proceed- 
ed to  the  seminary  of  Orleans,  with  the  intention  of  fohowing  the  vocation 
■which  has  long  appeared  to  be  marked  out  for  him,  and  to  enter  the  priest- 
hood, which  will  doubtless  reckon  him  hereafter  amongst  its  brightest 
ornaments." 


230  LADY-BIRD. 

shivered  to  pieces  the  fabric  of  her  happiness,  and  haa  stolen 
away  the  light  of  her  existence.  And  she  Lad  been  feebly 
loved  by  him  whom  even  now  she  adored  with  an  idolatrous 
worship.  He  had  forsaken  her,  and  his  conscience  was  doubt- 
less at  rest.  He  would  toil  for  others,  he  would  save  other 
souls  perhaps,  but  of  hers  he  had  made  sad  havoc.  He  ought 
never  to  have  loved,  or  never  to  have  abandoned  her.  She  was 
alone,  completely  alone  in  the  world.  She  had  told  him  there 
was  that  in  her  heart  which  must  not  be  trifled  with.  She  had 
lately  at  times  felt  a  strange  incoherence  in  her  thoughts.  She 
felt  as  if  her  father  was  pursuing  her,  and  this  sensation  be- 
came a  waking  nightmare.  He  might  drag  her  to  the  altar, 
and  she  would  have  no  strength  to  resist.  He  had  sent  Adrien 
away,  and  she  had  not  had  power  to  prevent  him.  Was  she  a 
slave  ?  Could  not  she  escape  ?  She  was  under  the  influence 
of  this  strange  oppression — half  feverish  and  half  real, — when 
the  sound  of  a  carriage  startled  her.  "  It  is  that  man,"  she 
wildly  exclaimed  ;  "  it  must  be  that  man  he  has  sent  for  !  " 

She  snatched  her  bonnet  and  her  shawl,  and  rushed  down 
the  back-stairs  into  the  garden  without  meeting  any  one. 
When  she  passed  the  stone  bench  near  her  mother's  window, 
where  she  had  sat  with  Adrien  the  day  he  went  away,  her  steps 
ftiltered ;  at  the  chapel-door  she  knelt  an  instant ;  but  when 
she  tried  to  pray,  though  her  lips  moved,  passion  and  anger 
rose  like  a  mist  between  her  and  Heaven.  Once  she  exclaim- 
ed :  "  Father  Lifford,  Father  LifFord,  would  to  God  you  were 
here  !     Why  have  you  forsaken  me  too  ?  " 

There  were  steps  on  the  gravel  walk,  and  she  fancied  once 
more  that  she  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  in  the  distance ;  and 
without  knowing  what  she  was  doing,  she  hurried  on  through 
the  park.  It  was  a  false  alarm,  but  she  did  not  stop  to  listen. 
"  I  cannot  go  back  to  that  house,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  can- 
not see  that  man.  I  cannot  meet  my  father  again.  I  will 
leave  his  roof.  His  face,  his  voice,  stand  between  me  and 
peace.     My  mother's  death  I  cannot  forget.     Her  last  cry  is 

in  my  ears.      He  hated  me   before,  and  now 0,  there  is  an 

abyss  between  us  which  never  can  be  filled  up.  I  will  go  to 
]Mary  Grey,  and  to  her  mother.  They  will  protect  me ;  they 
are  the  only  friends  I  ever  had.  Why  have  they  not  been  to 
me  in  my  sorrow  1  But  I  forget,  I  would  neither  see  any  one, 
nor  read  any  letters.  I  will  go  to  them  now.  I  cannot  think 
for  myself,  they  will  think  for  me.  0,  for  a  kind  hand  to  hold 
mine,  but  for  an  instant  now,  for  a  drop  of  cold  water  to  slako 
this  burning  thirst." 


LADY-BIRD.  231 

"  She  opoTic<l  tlie  gate  of  the  park,  and  hurried  on  towards 
Stonehousleigh.  It  was  a  clear  frosty  night,  and  in  the  dis- 
tance she  saw  the  roof  of  the  cottage  with  the  icicles  hanging 
from  the  straw;  alight  was  burning  in  the  window.  She  hur- 
ried on,  for  she  felt  faint  and  ill.  Unclosing  the  latch  with  a 
trembling  hand,  she  passed  through  the  little  gate  and  knock- 
ed at  the  door.  It  opened.  '•  Mary,"  she  said  in  a  hoarse 
whisper.  It  was  not  Mary's  voice  that  said,  "  (jood  Heavens, 
Miss  LiiTord  !  "  "  Maurice,  where  is  Mary  '?  Call  Mary  direct- 
ly— call  your  mother  ;  I  am  ill  "  She  staggered,  and  he  threw 
open  the  door  of  the  little  parlour,  and  chised  the  outer  one. 
She  sank  on  a  chair.  "  Call  them,  Maurice,"  she  repeated,  ''  I 
want  Mary."  He  looked  at  her  with  a  mixture  of  fear  and 
embarrassment.  He  scarcely  knew  what  to  say, — he  was 
afraid  to  tell  her  that  they  were  not  tliere. — that  they  had 
gone  to  London  that  morning.  He  had  remained  behind  to 
conclude  all  the  arrangements.  His  heart  was  beating  violent- 
ly ; — what  could  he  do  '?  She  was  looking  fearfully  pale.  Ho 
left  the  room  for  some  water,  and  held  it  to  her  lips.  '■  Whero 
are  they?  are  they  not  here?"  '•  No,  my  Lady-Bird,  no." 
She  fainted  away;  he  carried  her  to  the  couch  and  knelt  by  her 
side,  chaflng  her  brow  with  cold  water — he  had  nothing  else  at 
hand — and  looking  at  her  with  eyes  which  would  have  recalled 
life  in  the  dead,  if  eyes  could  ever  do  so. 

It  was  some  time  before  she  opened  hers,  and  then  her 
marble  cheek  was  resting  on  a  cushion,  and  her  hair  had  fallen 
on  her  shoulders.  Her  face  was  wet  with  the  water  with 
which  he  had  bathed  her  temples,  and  her  hands  with  the  hot 
tears  he  had  shed  upon  them.      She  started  up  affrighted. 

"  Where  am  I?     What  am  I  doing  here,  Maurice?" 
'  "  You  are  in  the  cottage,  Lady-Bird,  where  you  have  often 
spent  happy  hours,  where  from  your  childhood  you  have  been 
welcomed  by  true  affection.     You  came  to   Mary, — Marj  ia 
not  here." 

"  Nor  your  mother?  alas  !" 

"  No,  but  you  are  as  safe  as  if  the  whole  world  were 
around  you." 

"  I  never  doubted  it,"  she  coldly  and  proudly  reulied,  "  I 
must  go." 

"  Where,  where?''''  he  anxiously  asked. 

"  Whcre^  indeed  !"  she  ejaculated,  and  tried  to  rise,  but 
fell  back  exhausted.  '•  I  am  undone."  she  murmured  to  her- 
self, "  I  may  die  here ;    but  if  I  did — 0  shame  !    0  terror  1 


232  LADY-BIRD. 

Maurice,  go  for  Mr.  Erving  this  minute,  go  ;  he  will  help  mo 
and  guide  me." 

'■  But  I  cannot  leave  you  alone — I  cannot,  indeed." 

•'  You  must :  go  this  instant.  Go,  Maurice,  as  you  value 
mj"  blessing  or  my  curse." 

"  But,  Lady-Bird,  for  God's  sake  listen  to  me ;  I  am  ex- 
pecting a  man  here  to  carry  these  trunks  away  to  the  station. 
If  he  does  not  find  me  he  will  come  in ;  if  I  lock  the  door  he 
may  call  the  neighbours."  She  made  a  strong  effort  to  get 
up.  but  became  giddy  after  a  step  or  two,  and  was  forced  to 
sit  down  again. 

"Miss  Lifford,  you  can  trust  m.3  ]  be  calm,  and  listen  to 
what  I  say  to  you.  Let  me  get  you  a  bit  of  bread  and  a  glass 
of  wine  from  the  kitchen.  Try  and  eat,  and  then  lie  down  on 
that  couch  for  an  hour;  you  are  exhausted  with  grief;  you 
cannot  walk  now,  that  is  clear." 

Tears  for  the  first  time  fell  from  her  eyes  in  abundancCj 
and  turning  to  Maurice,  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  touching  help- 
lessness, ''  I  will  do  what  you  advise  ;  I  cannot  think  for 
myself" 

lie  brought  her  tlie  food,  and  she  swallowed  a  little.  He 
watched  her  as  a  mother  does  a  sick  child,  and  then  said  in  a 
low  vuice,  "  You  are  suffering  intensely.  In  the  name  of  the 
friendship  that  has  united  you  and  Mary,  will  you  not  tell 
Mary's  brother  what  has  made  your  cup  of  sorrow  overflow  ? 
We  have  been  friends  since  the  days  of  childhood.  0,  Lady- 
Bird,  will  you  not  open  j'our  heart  to  one  who  would  give  his 
life  to  spare  you  a  tear  ?  If  others  have  been  unkind  to  you, 
will  you  not  confide  in  an  afiection  that  never  can  fail  you  ?  " 

"Affection ! "  she  bitterly  answered  ;  "  there  is  no  such  thing 
on  earth.  Where  I  should  have  been  loved,  I  have  been 
hated :  there  is  no  happiness  for  me,  and  I  must  now  return, 
for  I  am  a  little  stronger  now,  to  that  detested  house  where 
my  mother  consumed  away  her  life,  where  my  youth  has  been 
saddened  and  my  soul  for  ever  blighted." 

Maurice's  eyes  suddenly  spai-kled  with  excitement,  and  a 
deep  colour  rushed  into  his  face.  "  I  understand  it  all,"  he 
cried;  "you  are  going  to  marry  the  Count  de  Mirasole.  I 
have  seen  him,  Gertrude,  a  miserable  being,  utterly  unworthy 
of  3^ou.  I  was  told  in  London  that  he  was  your  destined  hus- 
band, and  shuddered  at  the  thouglit.  But  he  has  rank  and 
wealth,  and  pride  like  your  father's." 

"  So  help  rie  Heaven,  they  may  kill  me,  but  I  will  not 


LADY-BIRD.  233 

marry  him.     And  yet  to  dwell  at  Lifford  Grange, — my  moth- 
er's living  grave " 

*«*■'  There  was  a  pause  ;  neither  of  them  spoke,  but  a  tuiimltu- 
ous  rusli  of  feelings  was  invading  his  heart  as  he  looked  upon 
her.  bowed  down  with  sorrow,  and  shuddering  at  the  thought 
of  the  home  she  had  left.  He  knelt  by  her  side,  and  with 
those  eyes  whicli  had  sought  to  recall  her  to  life  a  moment  be- 
fore by  the  impassioned  tenderness  of  tlieir  gaze,  he  tried,  aa 
it  were,  to  speak  the  thought  which  was  struggling  in  his 
mind.  She  pnrtly  understood  him,  for  she  held  out  her  hand 
to  him,  and  nmrniured,  "  I  am  not  ungrateful  for  your  sympa- 
thy," and  burst  into  tears.  Then  trembling  with  agitation,  ho 
said, 

'*■  Gertrude,  listen  to  mc.  We  are  alone,  but  never  were 
my  feelings  so  deeply  respectful ;  for  the  sake  of  Heaven  do 
not  start  at  what  I  am  going  to  say.  You  will  die  if  you  re- 
main at  Lifiord  Grange;  your  life  will  waste  away  in  that 
gloom  and  solitude.  A  slow  persecution  will  establish  itself 
against  you  if  you  refuse  to  marry  the  husband  of  your  fa- 
ther's choice  3Iy  iieart  beats  so  that  I  can  liardly  speak.  Ger- 
trude, as  J  :*  once  told  me  to  do.  I  have  loved  in  silence, — I 
have  adored  you  in  hopelessness.  I  shall  love  you  whether 
you  become  the  wife  of  Mirasole,  or  pine  away  your  life  in 
the  dungeon  called  your  home.  Pure,  as  it  is  ardent — hum- 
ble, aa  it  is  passionate — I  dare  speak  of  my  love,  even  here, 
alone  with  you  ;  for  you  could  never  mistake  a  heart  that  at 
all  times  has  been  yours.  If  some  have  hated,  I  have  wor- 
sliipped  you.  If  some  have  feebly  loved,  I  have  adored  you. 
If  others  have  forsaken,  I  have  clung  to  you  ;  and  with  my 
soul,  and  my  pen,  and  my  toil,  and  with  what  talent  Ileaveu 
has  given  me,  and  with  my  life.  I  will  serve  you.  and  ask  noth- 
ing ui  return  but  that  you  will  accept  tliat  devotion, — that 
you  will  let  me  take  you  to  my  mother  and  to  IMary,  who  will 
be  a  mother  and  a  sister  to  you  ;  and  then  ask  yourself  there, 
if  without  repugnance  you  can  give  me  the  right  to  live  for 
you.  You  do  not  care  for  rank,  thank  God, — you  have  suf- 
fered from  the  pride  and  the  coldness  of  others.  0.  Gertrude, 
will  you  not  try  the  ardent  love  of  an  artist's  heart, — of  a 
spirit  untrammelled  by  the  barriers  that  men,  and  not  God, 
have  placed  between  loving  hearts  1  Will  you  be  my  wife, — • 
and  fight  our  way  through  the  world  amidst  the  frowns  of  its 
votaries  and  the  sneers  of  its  slaves  2  Will  you  see  life  as  it 
is,  or  will  you  return  to  the  cold  shadows  of  existence  in  which 


234  LADY-BIRD. 

your  youth  was  spent,  or  be  the  tool  and  the  victim  of  your 
father's  pride  ?" 

"  Hush,  Maurice,  hush  !  "  she  wildly  exclaimed  ;  '-you  do 
not  know  what  you  are  saying." 

'•I  know  that  I  love  you  as  woman  has  seldom  been  lo\ed, 
— that  is  enough  for  me.  0  can  it  not  be  enough  for  you  1 
My  Gertrude, — my  Lady-Bird,  come  with  me  to  a  home  where 
none  but  loving  eyes  will  look  upon  you,  none  but  loving  words 
be  addressed  to  you.  Let  me  rescue  3'ou  from  the  tyranny 
that  has  embittered  all  your  life.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  love 
me  as  I  love  you  Few  love  thus;  but  let  me  be  your  hus- 
band  " 

"My  husband!"  she  exclaimed.  '■'■You!  0  leave  me, — 
leave  me.     What  are  you  talking  of,  Maurice?     Do  you  not 

know "     She  got  up  and  went  towards  the  door  ;  he  turned 

so  deadly  pale  that  she  thought  he  was  about  to  faint.  De- 
spair was  in  his  face.  "God  help  me!"  she  said,  "am  I 
breaking  his  heart  as  mine  is  breaking  ! "  He  heard  her.  and 
the  expression  of  his  eyes  changed, — a  sudden  hope  shot 
through  them  ;  again  he  pleaded,  again  implored,  and  a 
strange  conflict  arose  in  her  whom  he  addressed  as  she  listened 
to  his  feverish  words  of  tenderness — a  passion  which  soothed 
her  bruised  and  aching  heart.  The  idea  of  revenge,  too, 
arose  in  that  proud  spirit.  To  reward  a  love  which  had  been 
long  as  time  and  patient  as  faith,  to  fly  from  scenes  which 
seemed  to  wither  her  soul  as  she  looked  upon  them,  to  brave 
the  prejudices  that  had  been  fatal  to  her  peace,  and  the  father 
who  had  shivered  to  atoms  her  happiness,  to  show  Adrien  in 
bis  serene  indifference — his  virtuous  abstraction — that  she  too 
could  take  a  decisive  step ; — and  instead  of  weeping  in  soli- 
tude over  the  fate  to  which  he  had  left  her,  all  this  conspired 
at  that  moment  to  bewilder  and  confuse  her.  She  felt  a  pin- 
ing desire  to  bu  loved  and  protected.  She  felt  utterly  une- 
qual to  meet  the  struggle  that  awaited  her  at  Lifford  Grange ; 
and  the  diiEculty  of  returning  there  at  that  time  of  the  night, 
or  to  account  for  her  long  absence,  the  chance  of  being  obliged 
to  explain  it  to  her  father,  her  horror  of  the  husband  he  would 
force  upon  her, —  all  this  threw  weight  into  the  scale  in  that 
Lour  of  weakness,  of  infatuation,  and  of  despair. 

Maurice  was  not  designedly  artful ;  he  loved  her  passion 
atcly,  and  to  show  it  was  tlie  highest  art  he  could  employ ;  h« 
pleaded  with  his  whole  soul,  with  his  eyes,  and  with  his  words 
ne  combated  the  scruples  of  her  conscience,  the  misgivings  oi 


LADY-BIRD.  235 

hor  heart,  with  all  the  arguments  which  sophistry  could  furnish 
and  eloquence  employ, — blinded  all  the  while  by  the  delirium 
of  passion  to  the  fearful  sin  he  was  committing  against  Heaven 
and  against  her.  He  privately  ordered  the  person  who  called 
for  the  luggage  to  be  in  readiness  at  four  with  a  carriage  to 
take  him  to  the  railway.  She  was  fatigued,  over-excited, 
jaded  with  emotions  ;  she  scarcely  realised  what  she  was  about. 
She  began  to  fear  with  a  terrible  fear  that  she  would  be  missed 
at  Liiford  Grange,  and  be  discovered  where  she  was.  Once 
she  had  a  good  inspiration  ;  she  insisted  for  a  moment  that 
Maurice  should  take  her  to  Mr.  Erving's  house,  should  show 
her  the  way  to  it  at  least.  But  then  he  might  be  ab,=;ent,  and 
what  would  his  servant  think?  And  if  she  did  find  him,  what 
could  he  do  but  insist  on  her  returning  to  her  father ;  and 
that  seemed  to  have  grown  beyond  her  power.  At  mo- 
ments she  trembled  like  a  leaf  Then  again  a  fierce  irrita- 
tion supported  her.  She  had  been  sacrificed  to  the  cold 
heartless  pride  that  had  counted  her  happiness  atid  her  misery 
for  nothing ;  she  had  been  refused  to  the  man  she  adored,  and 
promised  to  a  stranger,  as  if  she  had  been  a  slave,  a  machine, 
or  a  piece  of  merchandise.  But  now,  when  the  proud  Spaniard 
would  arrive  and  claim  his  bride,  what  would  her  still  prouder 
father  answer  ?  She  had  fled  from  his  house  like  a  galley- 
slave  from  his  chain.  He  had  refused  Adrien,  with  his  title, 
his  noble  blood,  and  his  riches ;  and  she  would  marry  the  son 
of  a  poor  fiddler  and  of  an  Italian  singer  !  There  would  be  a 
blot  for  ever  on  that  hateful  escutcheon,  which  had  been  her 
foe  and  her  bane.  A  morbid  gratitude,  a  feverish  terror,  a 
boundless  resentment  blinded  her.  She  scarcely  looked  be- 
yond the  present  moment,  and  was  conveyed  away  towards  the 
railway-station,  with  no  definite  thought  but  the  fear  of  being 
overtaken.  But  no  one  had  missed  her, — her  father  had  not 
asked  for  her.  Her  maid  never  attended  her  in  the  evening : 
the  tea,  which  she  had  lately  taken  instead  of  dinner,  was 
carried  up  to  her  room  and  left  there.  Those  who  did  not  see 
her  in  her  apartments  concluded  she  was  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  those  who  did  not  see  her  there,  imagined  she  was  up- 
stairs. It  was  only  in  the  morning  that  the  truth  flashed 
upon  the  bewildered  servants, — Miss  Liiford  had  not  slept  in 
her  bed  that  night.  They  were  informing  her  father  of  the 
fact  at  the  moment  when  the  carriage  of  the  Count  of  Mirasole 
was  driving  up  to  the  door. 


236  LADY-BIRD. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"The  real  hardened  wicked 
Tliat  know  no  check  but  human  law, 
Are  to  a  few  restricted. 
But,  ah  !  mankind  is  unco  weak. 
And  little  to  be  trusted; 
When  self  tlie  wavering  balance  shakes, 
It's  rarely  right  adjusted." 

BUENS. 

"  The  frowardness  of  rashness  is  no  better 
Tlian  a  wild  dedication  of  ourselves 
To  unpath'd  waters,  undreamt  shores ;  most  certain 
To  miseries  enough  ;  no  ho|)e  to  'lelp  us. 
But  as  we  shake  off  one,  to  take  another." 

Shakespeare. 

• 

It  was  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  the  sun  was  just  be« 
ginning  to  make  his  way  tlirough  the  lingering  darkness  of  a 
London  atmosphere ;  when  the  air  felt  as  raw  and  chilly  as  if 
it  had  not  been  shone  upon  for  months ;  when  the  smell  and 
the  taste  of  fog  were  pervading  every  sense,  and  the  hard,  dull 
part  of  life's  business  was  beginning  to  stir  in  the  streets,  that 
a  hack-cab  stopped  at  a  house  in  one  of  the  streets  near  Man- 
chester Square.  Maurice,  who  was  on  the  box,  jumped  down 
and  rang  tlie  bell.  When  a  m  ild  opened  the  door,  he  sprung 
up  the  narrow  stairs,  and  found  Mary  in  the  sitting-room. 
Her  bonnet  was  on,  and  slie  v/as  just  going  out.  His  sudden 
appearance  did  not  startle  her  much,  for  she  expected  him 
that  day  ;  but  she  said, 

'•  So  early,  Maurice  !  I  did  not  know  you  were  coming  by 
this  train." 

He  seized  both  her  hands,  and  looked  at  her  so  strangely 
that  she  felt  frightened.  "  What  has  happened  ? — What  can 
have  happened?  " 

"  Something  so  extraordinary  that  at  this  very  moment  I 
am  not  sure  that  I  am  not  dreaming.  But  it  is  all  true — true 
as  I  am  here  ;  you  will  hardly  believe  it.  How  it  has  all  hap- 
pened I  scarcely  understand  myself;  but  Lady-Bird  is  with 
me, — she  is  in  the  carriage.  She  has  left  her  home  for  ever, 
and  with  me  !" 

Mary  turned  very  pale,  and  clasped  her  hands  together. 
*  Are  you  married,  Maurice?  " 

"  No,  but  we  must  be  married  immediately.     Come,  dear- 


LADV-BIRD.  237 

eat  Mary,  and  bring  her  upstairs  and  take  care  of  licr,  while 
I  go  to  get  ii  license,  and  speak  to  a  priest." 

Mary  went  down  to  the  carriage-door,  feeling  bewildered. 
It  passed  through  her  head  that  Maurice  had  gone  out  of  hie 
mind,  and  that  she  should  not  find  Gertrude  in  the  carriage. 
But  she  was  there, — pale  and  motionless  as  a  marble  statue, — 
looking  more  like  a  corpse  than  a  bride.  "  Miss  Lifford  !  dea* 
Miss  Lifford  !"  was  all  she  could  ejaculate,  as  she  led  her  up- 
stairs. She  made  her  sit  down  on  the  sofa  near  the  fire,  and 
then  looked  at  Maurice  with  an  expression  that  seemed  to  ask 
for  an  explanation,  lie  knelt  by  Gertrude,  and  whispered  in 
a  low  voice,  "  She  is  ill  and  cold, — she  has  suffered  so  much  !" 
Gertrude  opened  her  arms,  and  said,  "  Mary  !"  in  a  tone  of 
such  intense  misery,  that  though  she  shed  no  tears  Mary's 
streamed  down  her  face  while  pressing  her  to  her  heart.  Then 
Maurice  went  awuy,  and  left  them  together. 

It  was  a  strange  interview.  Neither  was  disposed  to  en- 
ter upon  explanations.  They  seemed  almost  equally  raiser- 
able.  Gertrude,  from  the  moment  that  she  had  entered  the 
railway-carriage  and  had  been  relieved  from  the  immediate 
fear  of  pursuit,  had  fallen  into  a  sort  of  stupor  that  had  pre- 
vented her  thinking  over  what  she  had  done,  or  what  she  was 
about  to  do.  To  draw  back  was  impossible ;  and  this  made 
her  impatient  for  the  moment  when  all  would  have  been  gone 
through,  and  her  fate  iri'evocably  fixed.  What  could  she  say 
to  Mary  ?  Notidng.  It  was  useless  to  explain.  What  had 
she  to  explain?  Driven  almost  wild,  and  from  the  impulse  of 
the  moment  seeking  a  refuge  where  she  alone  hoped  to  find 
one,  step  by  step  she  had  been  drawn  on  to  the  point  where 
she  now  was,  scarcely  knowing  if  she  had  injured  Maurice,  or 
he  had  wronged  her — whether  he  was  the  betrayer  or  the  be- 
trayed, and  herself  saved  or  undone. 

Tired  to  death  she  fell  asleep  on  the  hard  couch,  and 
Mary  stood  looking  at  her  with  a  mixture  of  pity  and  of  grief. 
•'  Then  she  loved  him,"  she  said  to  herself  '•  Poor  Lady-Bird, 
she  has  always  loved  him !  But  how  have  they  met  1 
How  has  this  been  brought  about?  So  soon  after  her  mo- 
ther's death  !  How  will  he  support  her,  used  as  she  has  been 
to  so  many  comforts  ?  But  perhaps  her  father  may  forgive 
her ;  though  I  am  afraid  he  will  not.  Good  Heavens  !  who 
would  ever  have  thought  this  possible  ?  Gertrude  Lifford — • 
Lady  Bird — Maurice's  wife  !  She  must  have  loved  him  very 
much  to  have  acted  thus.     But  how  could  she   make  up  her 


238  LADY-BIRD. 

mind  to  it  ?  I  hope  he  did  not  over-persuade  her.  Will  L« 
want  me  to  go  to  church  with  them  1  Perhaps  he  will  not 
like  to  ask  me,  but  I  will,  and  my  mother  shall  go  too.  It  will 
be  a  sad  wedding." 

She  put  some  wood  on  the  fire,  and  lit  a  candle,  for  the 
fog  was  getting  more  yellow  and  dense  every  moment.  Ger- 
trude's bonnet  had  fallen  on  the  ground.  She  picked  it  up 
and  hung  it  on  the  screen,  laid  her  own  shawl  on  her  feet ; 
then  softly  slipped  out  of  the  room  to  go  and  prepare  her  mo- 
ther for  this  strange  arrival.  Mrs.  Redmond  was  quite  be- 
wildered at  the  news,  and  gazed  at  her  daughter  in  silent 
astonishment.  "  Bless  my  soul !  "  she  ejaculated  in  a  moment ; 
"what  odd  things  do  happen,  Mary  !"  This  was  her  resource 
in  all  embarrassing  moments  in  life,  from  a  dropped  stitch  in 
her  work  to  the  greatest  event  that  ever  came  across  her  quiet 
path — '■  Mary  !  " — a  look  at  that  kind  serene  face,  an  appeal 
to  that  invariable  goodness  and  sense  which  she  almost  super- 
stitiously  trusted  in.  "  Mary  says  it  must  be  done,"  or 
••  Mary  says  there  is  nothing  to  fret  about,"  were  oracles 
which  had  never  found  her  rebellious  or  incredulous.  "  Mary  !" 
Mary  knew  what  that  meant\  and  said  gently, 

'•  We  feel,  dearest  mother,  that  it  would  have  been  much 
better  that  this  had  never  happened, — that  Maurice  must  have 
been  wrong,  and  poor  Lady-Bird  very  wrong  in  acting  in  this 
way.  I  don't  know  how  it  has  come  about.  But  though  they 
have  committed  a  great  fault,  it  is  no  crime,  mother,  and  God 
only  knows  what  excuses  they  have  had.  She  has  been  so  un- 
happy at  home,  and  her  love  for  him  must  be  very  great  to  have 
led  her  to  this  ;  now  she  must  become  his  wife  directly." 

"  His  wife,  Mary  !  I  had  once  thought  you  would  be  hia 
wife." 

A  painful  expression  for  one  instant  passed  over  her 
daughter's  face,  but  it  quickly  disappeared,  and  she  said  : 
"  That  was  a  great  mistake,  dear  mother.  Maurice  is  coming 
back,"  she  added  in  a  moment,  "  with  the  licence.  We  must 
go  to  church  with  them,  and  you  must  give  her  your  blessing  ; 
poor  motherless  Lady-Bird — no  father  will  give  her  away — 
no  mother  will  stand  near  her.  0,  she  has  done  very  wrong  ; 
but  had  I  been  in  her  place,  who  knows  that  I  should  have  had 
strength  to  act  differently  ?  "  Her  voice  faltered  as  she  said 
the  last  words,  but  Mrs.  Redmond  was  satisfied.  Mary  had 
said  it  was  all  a  mistake  her  fancying  that  Maurice  had  ever 
loved  her.     Mary  had  said  that  Maurice  and  Gertrude  had 


LADY-BIRD.  239 

been  very  wrong  in  running  away  together,  but  that  there 
were  jirobably  what  the  French  tribunal  would  call  des  circon- 
stanccs  atUnvanlcs^  and  that  she,  Mrs.  llcdmund,  was  to  give 
them  her  blessing  and  be  kind  to  them ;  and  that  was  quite 
enough  for  her, — Mary  must  be  right. 

Poor  Mary  did  not  feel  so  sure  of  being  right.  She  asked 
herself  if  she  ought  not  to  put  more  (i[uestions,  to  learn  more 
of  what  had  happened,  to  advise  Gertrude  to  pause  and  to  re- 
flect before  she  irrevocably  bound  herself  to  one  whose  worldly 
position  was  so  inferior  to  hers,  and  set  at  defiance  her  father, 
who,  cold  and  heartless  as  he  had  been,  was  still  her  father. 
She  thought  of  her  aged  uncle  also,  and  the  sorrow  and  indig- 
nation he  would  feel  at  the  news  of  this  strange  marriage. 
She  had  an  instinctive  feeling  that  after  such  a  flight,  and 
such  a  journey,  a  return  to  her  home  would  be  impossible  ;  but 
could  not  she  pause  for  a  while,  and  take  advice  before  this 
rash  act  was  completed  ?  But  again,  how  could  slic  stand  be- 
tween Maurice  and  the  happiness  he  was  on  the  point  of  attain- 
ing 1  If  by  her  advice  she  induced  Gertrude  to  retrace  her 
steps,  and  give  time  to  her  father  to  claim  her, — if  slie  and 
Maurice  were  forcibly  separated,  and  made  quite  miserable, — 
would  not  she  have  incurred  a  great  responsibility  ?  She  was 
well  acquainted  with  Mr.  Lifford's  character.  He  would  never 
forgive  his  daughter,  but  would  move  heaven  and  earth  to  pre- 
vent what  he  must  consider  a  disgraceful  marriage.  What  a 
destiny  her  interference  might  be  preparing  for  Gertrude  ! — 
What  misery,  what  despair  for  Maurice  !  And  was  she  sure 
enough  of  her  own  heart,  not  to  mistrust  its  motives  in  this 
hour  of  trial?  Maurice  adored  Gertrude,  and  she  also  most 
dearly  loved  him.  They  would  have  to  toil  and  to  struggle, 
but  their  devotion  to  each  other  would  sweeten  those  toils  and 
struggles.  What  business  had  she  to  interfere  ?  Faint,  tired, 
and  agitated  as  she  was,  a  word  might  sway  Gertrude,  and  the 
consequences  might  be  important  beyond  what  she  knew.  J^o, 
there  was  no  time  for  advice,  for  anything  but  endurance  and 
prayer.  She  would  stand  by  that  suifering,  pale  bride,  and 
leave  the  future  in  the  hands  of  God, 

With  that  resolution  she  returned  to  the  room"  where  she 
bad  left  hei".  Gertrude  awoke  and  shivered  a  little.  Then 
got  up  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  and  as  she  looked 
out  of  the  window  said  in  an  absent  manner,  "And  this  is 
London?"  Then  returning  to  her  place  on  the  sofa,  she  sat 
eilently   contemplating    the  fire.     Some  tea  was  brought,  of 


240  LADT-BIRD. 

which  she  took  a  little,  and  then  said  to  Mary,  "  Did  jou  ever 
hear  of  a  daughter  marrying  a  fortnight  after  her  mother's 
death  ?"  The  colour  rushed  into  Mary's  face  ;  she  knew  not 
what  to  answer.  "  Yours  is  not  an  ordinary  marriage,"  she 
hesitatingly  said.  Her  heart  was  aching  dreadfully.  She  felt 
much  that  she  dare  not  utter.  There  were  religious  duties 
which  both  ought  to  have  accomplished  before  receiving  the 
marriage  blessing.  Did  they  know  this?  Had  they  forgot- 
ten it?  She  was  just  about  to  speak,  when  a  rap  at  the  door 
made  them  both  start.  "  Remember,"  Gertrude  exclaimed, 
with  a  wild  expression,  '•  that  I  am  of  age,  and  that  no  power 
on  earth  shall  induce  me  to  return  to  LiiFord  Grange." 

'•  It  is  only  the  postman's  knock,"  Mary  said,  and  an  in- 
stant afterwards  she  heard  Maurice's  voice  in  the  passage. 
"  He  is  come  back,  is  he  !"  Gertrude  ejaculated.  It  was  some 
minutes  before  he  came  upstairs.  He  had  gone  into  the  room 
below.  When  he  entered  the  one  where  Gertrude  and  Mary 
were  sitting,  he  was  as  pale  as  death.  The  expression  of  his 
face — his  whole  manner — were  changed  from  what  they  had 
been,  when  he  had  arrived  that  morning.  Then,  in  the  midst 
of  agitation  and  emotion,  there  was  joy  and  hope  ;  but  now 
his  eyes  had  a  dark  and  troubled  expression,  and  he  seemed  in 
a  kind  of  agony  of  irresolution.  Passion  and  conscience  wei'e 
at  that  moment  waging  war  in  his  soul.  The  one  was  fierce 
and  the  other  weak,  and  the  combat  was  unequal.  He  ap- 
proached Gertrude  and  twice  he  tried  to  speak,  but  his  voice 
failed  him.  She  did  not  observe  it,  and  it  was  she  who  said 
at  last,  '■  Is  all  ready?"  perhaps  with  a  sensation  akin  to  that 
with  which  that  question  has  been  asked  at  the  foot  of  the 
scafibld.  He  had  an  instinctive  knowledge  that  at  that  mo- 
ment the  words  of  passion  and  of  tenderness,  which  had 
wrought  so  powerfully  on  her  feelings  the  day  before,  would 
be  displeasing  to  her.  Nor  could  he  now  pour  them  forth  out 
of  the  fulness  of  a  heart  which,  weak  and  guilty  as  it  had  been, 
till  this  hour  had  been  true  in  its  devotion  to  her.  He  could 
only  seize  her  hand,  and  articulate  the  word  '•  Come."  Mary 
whispered  to  him,  "  I  will  call  my  mother;  we  are  both  going 
with  you."  When  she  returned  witli  Mrs.  Redmond,  Gertrude 
turned  away  with  her  cheeks  burning,  and  her  lips  quivering. 
The  old  woman  went  to  her,  took  her  hand  in  both  hers  and 
murmured,  "  My  dear  young  lady — my  dear  child."  "  My 
mother  '.''^  Gertrude  exclaimed,  as  if  her  heart  was  breaking, 
'  O  my  motlicr  I "  then  suddenly  became    calm   and   said — 


LADT-BIRD.  241 

'  Now  I  am  ready,  let  us  go."  They  all  went  in  one  carriage, 
and  througli  the  foggy  streets  to  the  chapel.  Mary  said  to 
herself,  '•  And  tliis  is  Maurice's  wedding-day  1 " 

And  what  did  he  feel  during  that  time?  Like  the  gam- 
bler, when  the  decisive  card  is  about  to  be  played, — when  the 
winning  horse  is  ncaring  the  goal.  In  another  moment  Ger- 
trude would  be  his,  and  no  earthly  power  might  put  a-sunder 
tlose  who  would  then  have  been  joined  together.  When  the 
ceremony  was  over,  and  they  were  returned  to  the  house  in 
King  Street,  she  suffered  from  such  a  violent  headache,  and 
appeared  .so  ill,  that  Mrs.  Redmond  insisted  on  making  her 
rest  on  the  sofa,  and  giving  her  some  draught  of  her  own  pre- 
paration to  drink  ;  desiring  Maurice  and  Mary  not  to  disturb 
her  for  a  while,  for  that  her  pulse  was  so  quick  and  her  hands 
so  burning,  that  unless  great  care  were  taken  of  her  she  might 
be  seriously  ill.  Maurice  knelt  by  the  sofa,  kissed  both  her 
hands,  and  then  her  forehead.  He  could  hardly  realise  tliat 
she  was  indeed  his  wife.  It  was  like  a  feverish  dream,  from 
which  he  fancied  every  moment  he  must  awake.  She  neitlier 
stirred  nor  spoke  a  word, — till  hearing  him  sigh  deeply  as  he 
rose  from  his  knees,  she  opened  her  eyes  and  held  out  her  hand 
to  him.  He  passionately  kissed  it  again  and  again.  She  said, 
"  T  will  try  to  make  a  good  wife  to  you.  Maurice,"  "  Idol  of 
my  heart  !  "  he  exclaimed.  '•  No,  no,"  slie  murmured  ;  "  it  is 
wrong  to  have  idols."  Then,  oppressed  with  fatigue  and  heavi- 
ness, she  fell  asleep.  He  went  down  to  the  little  parlour  be- 
low, where  Mary  was  sitting  with  her  work  in  her  hands — 
hands  that  were  never  idle,  however  busy  her  thoughts. 

"  You,  too,  must  be  very  tired,  brother,"  she  said  as  he 
came  in.  When  they  were  children  it  had  been  her  habit  to 
call  him  so,  and  during  the  last  few  months  she  had  gradually 
resumed  it.  "  But  I  suppose  you  are  too  much  agitated,  too 
happy,  to  sleep.  Sit  down  in  that  arm-chair,  and  tell  me  the 
history  of  this  strange  event.  I  long  to  know,  Maurice,  what 
I  feel  persuaded  of  beforehand — that  you  have  been  both  as 
little  to  blame  as  possible." 

"  0,  Mary,  she   came  to  the  cottage  last  night,  in  all  her 

beauty,  and  in  the  deepest  grief     Her  mother's  grave  was 

scarcely  closed,  and  her  own  tears  undried,  when  her  father 

attempted   to  force  upon  her  acceptance  the  hand  of  a  total 

stranger,  who  was  to   arrive  this  very   day.      She  had   gone 

through   a  di'cadful  scene  with  him  ;  and  distracted  by  his 

tinkindness,  she  fled  like  a  wounded  bird  to  the  only  friends 

IG 


242  LADY-BIRD. 

wlio  had  always  loved  her.  She  expected  to  find  you  and 
mother,  and  fainted  away  with  fatigue  and  the  anguish  of  dis- 
appointment, when  I  was  forced  to  tell  her  you  were  gone. 
What  could  I  do  then  ?  I  dared  not  leave  her,  nor  summon 
any  one  to  her  assistance.  We  remained  there  together,  and 
the  time  passed  by.  When  she  came  to  herself,  her  fears 
flowed  bitterly,  and  I  implored  her  to  confide  in  me.  She 
trembled,  and  spoke  of  her  grief  and  loneliness,  and  I  saw  her 
fhudder  Avhen  she  thought  of  returning  to  LifFord  Grange  ;  and 
then  it  was  not  in  man's  nature  to  refrain  from  offering  her  a 
refuge,  from  making  the  confession  of  a  love "  He  hesi- 
tated ;  he  could  not  but  remember  how  often  he  had  told 
Mary  that  he  loved  Aer,  that  he  would  never  love  any  but  her  ; 
and  the  sense  of  his  ingratitude,  and  of  the  angelic  patience 
with  which  she  had  met  it,  almost  overcame  him  at  that  mo- 
ment. But  she  looked  at  him  calmly,  and  taking  up  his  words, 
she  said, 

"And  you  forgot  everything  but  that  love  which  you  had 
so  long  struggled  to  repress.  You  forgot  that  you  ought  not 
to  have  revealed  it  at  such  a  moment.  You  were  tempted, 
Maurice,  and  you  yielded  to  the  temptation.  It  seemed  to 
you,  perhaps,  in  that  moment  of  agitation,  that  it  was  right  to 
offer  her  your  heart  as  a  refuge,  and  this  poor  home  as  a 
shelter  ;  and  when  you  found  that  she  loved  you,  in  the  jqy  of 
that  discovery " 

An  ashy  paleness  overspread  Maurice's  face  as  Mary  pro- 
nounced these  words,  and  he  murmured  in  hesitating  accents 
"  I  hope  she  loves  me  " 

Like  a  flash  of  lightning  the  thought  passed  through  her 
mind,  that  perhaps  he  was  not  certain  of  it,  and  had  too  read- 
ily taken  advantage  of  her  distress  of  mind,  her  dread  of 
returning  home, — of  her  sufferings,  in  short, — to  persuade  her 
to  a  step,  that  nothing  but  a  strong  affection  on  both  sides 
could  palliate  or  excuse.  This  was  a  dreadful  moment  for 
Mary.  She  started  at  the  vision  of  past  sin  and  future  misery 
which  was  suggesting  itself  to  her  mind,  and  she  exclaimed : 

"  But  you  did  not  over-persuade  her,  Maurice  ?  You  gave 
her  time  to  reflect — to  pause  ?  0,  for  Heaven's  sake  tell  mo 
/ou  did  so  !  " 

"  There  was  no  time  for  deliberation,"  he  rejoined  with  in- 
creasing vehemence,  as  he  saw  her  emotion.  "  Do  you  think 
that  at  such  a  moment  a  man  is  in  the  full  possession  of  his 
Bonses  ?     I  described  my  love  and  my  despair  till  she  allowed 


LADY-BIRD.  243 

me  to  speak  of  her  future  fate  also — I  told  licr  what  it  would 
be  if  she  remained  at  Lifford  Grange.  I  argued  away  her 
scruples, — Heaven  knows  my  own  reasonings  seemed  just  to 
me  at  the  time.  She  had  once  told  me  to  love  her  on,  and  to 
bide  my  time — and  the  time  seemed  to  be  come.  1  believe 
she  loves  me,  I  am  sure  she  does." 

He  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room  with  impetuosity. 
Mary  remained  silent ;  her  misgivings  were  not  removed  ;  but 
she  felt  it  was  done,  it  was  over,  it  was  irrevocable, — and  no- 
thing remained  but  the  hope  that  God,  in  his  infinite  mercy 
would  bring  good  out  of  evil,  should  her  worst  fears  be  real- 
ised ;  but  slie  also  knew  there  was  such  a  thing  as  retribution^ 
and  her  heart  sunk  within  her.  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  ou 
the  ground,  scarcely  venturing  to  look  in  his  face. 

"  If  I  have  done  wrong,"  he  began. 

"  If !  0  Maurice,"  she  rejoined,  in  a  tone  that  pierced 
him  to  the  soul  ;  for,  if  she  condemned  him  already,  what 
would  she  have  felt  and  said  if  she  had  known  what  no  other 
creature  but  himself  did  know, — a  secret  that  was  lodged  in 
his  breast,  never  to  be  revealed  to  her,  or  to  any  one ;  but 
which,  like  a  thorn,  was  to  dwell  there,  while  his  writhings 
would  only  serve  to  drive  it  in  more  deeply. 

Both  feared  to  say  more  about  the  past.  Each  had  un- 
derstood more  than  the  other  had  expressed  in  words,  and  a 
painful  silence  ensued.  She  communed  with  herself;  and, 
knowing  his  character,  felt  it  necessary  to  encourage  him  to 
look  forward  with  resolution  to  the  future.  '•  Speak  to  them 
that  they  <yo  forioard."  This  sentence  of  the  Bible  had  fixed 
itself  in  Mary's  mind  when  she  was  very  young,  as  a  sort  of 
spell  that  carried  her  along  through  discouragements  and 
trial,  as  if  borne  upon  an  angel's  wing.  It  stifled  regrets, 
self-pity,  self-indulgence,  and  braced  every  nerve  for  the  duty 
or  the  struggle  of  the  liour;  and  now  she  ft-lt  it  to  be  a  greater 
duty  to  urge  him  'to  future  efforts,  and  atoning  virtues,  than 
to  reproacii  him  for  the  past. 

"  You  are  now,"  she  said,  "  Gertrude's  liu.sband,  her  pro- 
tector, her  sole  support ;  for  the  world  will  be  against  her, 
and  not  much  mercy  will  it  show  to  either  of  you.  I  do  not 
say  this  to  discourage  you.  God  knows,  but  to  excite  j'ou  to 
be  all  to  her  that  a  husband  can  be  to  a  wife  who  has  given 
up  everything  for  him.  Hers  is  not  a  common  claim  ou  your 
love.  0  Maurice,  dearest  brother,  begin  well  this  new  life  of 
yours      You  will  need  God's  blessing  upon  it, — seek  it  day 


244  LADY-EIRD. 

by  day  at  hid  feet,  and  then  work  hard  for  Gertrude ;  dear 
Lady-Bird  must  not  want  a  single  comfort  which  our  labour 
can  obtain.""  He  pressed  her  hand,  and  both  were  again  for 
a  few  minutes  absorbed  in  thought.  Then  (for  there  are  a 
thousand  little  necessary  details  of  life  which  assert  their 
claims  even  in  the  most  exciting  moments)  she  said  to  him, 
"  Where  shall  you  live,  Maurice  ?  Here,  I  hope  ;  at  least, 
just  now." 

"  Will  it  be  possible,  Mary  ?  " 

'•Quite  possible.  There  are  two  rooms  npstairs  which  you 
can  have  ;  and  I  should  think,  just  at  first,  that  as  you  know 
little,  and  Lady-Bird  nothing,  about  housekeeping,  it  will  be 
a  good  thing  for  her  to  have  somebody  to  manage  little  ar- 
rangements, and  to  supply  the  place  of  her  maid  ;  I  can  lend 
her  some  clothes,  also  until " 

"  0  Mary,  here  is  my  purse,  for  Heaven's  sake,  buy  what- 
ever she  may  want." 

"  No  indued,  my  dear  Maurice,  you  have  been  tolerably 
well  ofi"  as  a  single  man  daring  the  last  two  years,  but 
as  a  married  man  you  nuist  be  very  prudent.  It  is  likely, 
that  even  should  Mr.  Liiford  cast  ofi'  his  daughter,  he 
will  send  her  what  was  her  own  until  now.  Then,  again, 
there  is  something  which  I  think  you  should  ca,refully 
avoid,  and  that  is  proposing  any  change  in  your  wife's 
habits  of  life.  Any  such  alteration  should  come  from  her- 
self alone,  and  not  be  suggested  by  you,  or  by  us.  Most 
likely  she  will  wish  to  dress  less  expensively — indeed  it  will 
be  inevitable  if  her  fatlier  does  not  contribute  to  your  sup- 
port— but  it  would  not  be  desirable  that  you  should  procure 
for  her  less  costly  things  than  she  has  been  used  to.  If  hers 
are  not  sent  to  her,  it  will  be  time  enough  then  for  you  to 
explain  to  her  candidly  the  amount  of  your  resources,  and  to 
let  her  decide  on  the  line  she  will  adopt  in  these  respects." 

"  Mary,  you  are  a  little  Solomon,"  Maurice  said,  with  a 
smile,  but  it  was  one  which  was  soon  followed  by  a  deep  sigh. 
For  what  would  he  not  have  given  to  have  been  able  to  sur- 
round his  wife  with  all  the  comforts  and  pleasures  and  luxu- 
ries of  life?  and  he  looked  with  loathing  at  the  narrow  dull 
rooms,  tlie  dingy  walls  and  comfortless  furniture  of  that  poor 
lodging  house.  If,  indeed,  he  had  been  convinced  that  sho 
loved  him,  all  would  have  been  well.  On  that  day,  at  least, 
ho  would  have  given  care  to  the  winds,  and  have  bade  defiance 
to  the  frowns  of  fortune  ;  but  such  love  as  his  was  too  clear- 


LADr-BIRD.  245 

Biglitcd  long  to  deceive  itself;  although  he  strove  to  persuado 
himself. — in  spite  of  former  jealous  suspicions,  and  of  a  start- 
ling confirmation  which  they  had  received  that  very  day — that 
she  did  love  him,  and  that  her  heart  had  prompted  the  rash 
act  she  had  committed  :  still,  as  he  repassed  in  his  mind  tho 
scenes  of  that  eventful  day,  he  could  not  recall  one  glance  of 
real  love,  one  word  that  set  at  rest  the  terrible  misgivings  of 
un  awakening  conscience  and  a  torturing  jealousy. 

Mary,  meanwhile,  was  as  busy  as  a  bee.  She  concluded 
with  the  mistress  of  the  house  the  bargain  for  the  rooms  up- 
stairs, and  set  about  helping  the  maid  to  give  them  a  thorough 
cleaning.  The  pale  sun  was  beginning  to  concjuer  the  fog.  and 
she  threw  open  the  window  to  let  in  that  transient  ray.  Every 
bit  of  furniture  that  could  be  considered  ornamental  was  trans- 
ferred from  her  mother's  room  and  her  own  to  Gertrude's. 
Every  picture  and  print  she  possessed  was  hung  on  the  walls. 
There  were  some  that  Maurice  had  brought  her  from  Italy, 
and  which  used  to  be  her  treasures.  One  in  particular,  a 
pretty  engraving  of  the  Madonna  di  Foligno,  before  which  she 
had  ever  since  said  lier  prayers.  Siie  hesitated  an  instant,  but 
then  tliouglit  that  those  prayers  would  have  been  poured  forth 
to  little  purpose  if  they  had  not  prepared  her  to  part  with 
everything  that  referred  to  a  time  she  must  now  never  remem- 
ber. One  fervent  kiss  was  pressed  on  the  sacred  feet  of  the 
Virgin's  child,  and  then  the  picture  was  placed  where  the  light 
would  best  fall  upon  it.  Her  prettiest  looking  books  were 
ranged  on  the  shelves— several  little  knick-knaeks  were  laid 
on  the  table.  When  the  fire  was  lit  and  the  tlame  burned 
brightly,  she  thought  the  room  looked  cheerful  ;  and  cheerfully 
she  had  worked,  in  spite  of  the  aching  of  her  heart — for  it  was 
aching,  notwithstanding  every  efibrt — it  was  aching  more  than 
any.  one  could  have  conceived.  Many  a  woman,  with  such  a 
suffering  heart,  would  have  been  drowned  in  tears.  Many 
another,  who  had  loved,  and  did  still  love,  like  her,  would  have 
turned  from  Maurice  with  bitter  resentment,  and  from  Ger- 
trude with  cold  severity :  but  people  are  very  different,  and 
there  are  different  ways  of  showing  feeling.  Mary's  was  to 
work  very  hard  for  the  runaway  pair  all  that  day,  and  for  a 
few  minutes  in  the  afternoon  to  pray  fervently  for  them  before 
the  altar  where  they  had  been  married. 

"  To  be  left  alone  for  ten  minutes,"  this,  it  was  said,  was 
the  first  request  of  a  young  Queen  upon  coming  to  the'  throne, 
[n  tlic  moHt  different  situations  under  the  most  different  emo 


246  LADY-BIRD. 

tioDS,  that  wish,  that  aspiration  has  been  felt.  It  was  Ger 
trude's  passionate  desire  on  the  day  after  her  marriage  to  be 
left  alone  for  a  while,  and  to  reflect  on  all  she  had  not  ven- 
tured to  think  of  while  her  fate  was  not  yet  irrevocably  fixed. 
She  had  been  used  all  her  life  to  the  vast  lofty  rooms  of  Lif- 
ford  Grange,  to  its  parks  and  its  gardens  ;  and  whenever 
either  sorrow  or  excitement  oppressed  her,  she  seemed  to  find 
relief  iu  the  space  that  she  could  range  in,  and  in  the  power 
of  rapid  movement  which  it  afforded  her.  She  was  absolutely 
stifled  by  the  atmosphere  of  London,  by  the  closeness  of  the 
small  house  in  which  she  found  herself  Even  when  the  door 
of  her  own  room  was  shut,  she  could  hear  voices  and  steps, 
below  and  above  her.  And  if  a  louder  sigh  than  usual 
escaped  her,  if  after  an  instant's  silent  weeping  a  sob  burst 
from  her  breast,  Maurice  rushed  anxiously  back  to  her  side 
and  asked  if  she  was  grieving  at  having  made  him  happy : 
and  she  was  obliged  to  give  him  her  hand,  and  to  endeavour  to 
reassure  him  by  a  smile.  She  felt  the  scrutiny  of  his  eyes 
upon  her  every  moment,  and  asked  herself  if  people  had  ever 
been  driven  mad  by  being  watched?  In  the  afternoon  of  that 
day  she  told  him  she  had  a  task  to  perform  which  would 
cost  her  much  suffering,  and  for  which  she  wished  to  be  alone. 
It  was  to  write  to  her  father,  and  to  inform  him  of  her  mar- 
riage. She  did  not  say  she  would  show  him  her  letter.  He 
had  thought  they  might  have  written  it  together;  but  this 
seemed  never  to  have  occurred  to  her.  He  went  out  to  walk 
a  little  with  Mary.  Gertrude  looked  from  the  window,  and 
saw  them  turning  the  corner  of  the  street.  Then,  for  the  first 
time  since  her  mother's  death,  she  gave  way  to  an  uncontrolled 
and  vehement  burst  of  crying,  and  murmured  iu  a  choking 
voice,  '•  What  have  I  done  ? — what  have  I  done  ?  0  my 
God  !  what  have  I  done  ?  "  After  a  few  moments  she  felt 
calmer,  and  sat  down  to  write.      This  was  her  letter : — 

"  King  Strcel,  Manchester  Square. 

"  I  do  not  write  to  ask  your  forgiveness,  for  I  well  know 
you  never  will  forgive  me,  nor  to  relieve  you  from  any  anxiety 
about  my  life,  for  I  know  you  would  rather  hear  of  my  death 
than  of  the  marriage  I  have  made,  but  only  to  save  you  the 
trouble  of  making  inquiries  which  would  give  you  needless 
trouble.  TLat  I  was  born  to  be  a  curse  to  you  I  cannot  but 
feel.  That  you  have  made  my  life  a  curse  to  me  may  be  no 
uiore  than  I  deserve.     I  do  not  reproach  vou  now.    Two  days 


LAUY-BIKD.  247 

ago  I  had,  perliaps,  a  right  to  complain.  Now  I  have  none. 
It  would  be  impertinent  in  me  to  say  I  forgive  you,  and  yet  as 
I  do  not  expect  you  will  ever  choose  to  see  or  to  hear  from  mo 
again,  I  should  like  to  say  it  as  if  on  my  deathbed.  I  forgive 
you  for  never  having  loved  me  or  looked  kindly  upon  me  in 
my  youth.  I  forgive  you  for  having  driven  me  to  oftend  you 
beyond  the  possibility  of  forgiveness,  for  having  tempted  mc 
to  take  my  fate  into  my  own  hands,  and  incur  the  sin  and 
misery  of  disobedience  without  the  excuse  of  passion.  Your 
anger  will  be  great :  I  do  not  say  it  will  not  be  just.  For  the 
Bake  of  my  mother,  of  her  long  sufferings,  of  her  recent 
death,  one  only  favour  I  ask  of  you.  Do  not  curse  me,  my 
father,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  Maurice  lledmond's  wife." 

She  did  not  sign  this  letter,  but  hurriedly  sealed  and 
directed  it.  Two  days  after,  as  Mary  had  expected,  several 
trunks  arrived  containing  everything  that  had  belonged  to 
Gertrude  at  Lifford  Grange.  It  was  the  only  sign  that  her 
letter  had  been  received.  As  Mary  was  unpacking  her  clothes 
and  ranging  them  in  the  drawers,  while  she  sat  watching  her 
with  a  kind  of  mechanical  attention,  the  latter  held  out  to  her 
a  sheet  of  paper  which  had  been  laid  at  the  bottom  of  the 
trunk ;  as  she  did  so,  some  drawings  which  it  contained  fell  to 
the  ground.  She  saw  her  copy  of  the  Duke  of  Gandia's 
picture,  with  the  words  written  under  it,  and  gave  a  sort  of 
scream  which  startled  Mary,  who  on  turning  round  saw  her 
standing  over  the  fire  while  the  flame  was  consuming  that 
drawing,  aud  she  was  murmuring  to  herself  the  Latin  words, 

"  Dies  irce,  dies  ilia, 
Solvet  sceclmn  infavilld." 

When  the  last  blackened  remnant  of  the  sheet  of  paper  turned 
to  ashes,  she  said  in  a  louder  voice,  "  That  always  reminds  me 
of  the  hymn  on  the  Day  of  Judgment, 

'  When  shrivelling  like  a  parcbed  scroll, 
The  flaming  heavens  together  roll' " 

Mary  resumed  her  labours,  and  laid  on  the  table  a  gorgeoua 
case  with  an  embossed  crest,  containing  the  necklace  which 
Gertrude's  father  had  given  her.  She  gazed  upon  it  for  a 
moment  in  silence  and  then  asked, 

"  Did  you  ever  read  a  novel  called  '  Love  and  Pride, 
Mary?" 


248  LADY-BIRD. 

"  No,  what  made  you  think  of  it  now  ?  " 
"  I  don't  know — that  diamond  necklace  perhaps." 
"  Yo?i   had   to  choose   between  them,"  Mary  kindly  saidj 
"■  and  you  chose  love,  not  pride." 

Gertrude  turned  to  the  window  and  made  no  answer. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


"  0  could'st  thou  but  know, 
With  what  a  deep  devotedness  of  woe, 
I  wept  [his]  absence  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
Thinliing  of  [him],  still  iiim,  till  thought  grew  pain; 
Did'st  thou  but  know  liow  pale  I  sat  at  home, 
My  ej'es  still  tm-ned  the  way  [he]  was  to  come. 
And  all  tlie  long  long  nights  of  hope  and  fear, 
[His]  voice  and  step  still  sounding  in  my  ear. 
Oh  God!  thou  would' st  not  wonder  that  at  last, 
When  every  hope  was  all  at  once  o'ercast, 
This  wretched  brain  gave  way 

MOOKK. 

"Our  God,  the  all  just, 
Unto  himself  reserves  this  royalty ; 

The  secret  chastening  of  the  guilty  soul, 
Tiie  fiery  toucli,  the  scourge  that  purifies. 
Leave  it  with  him." 

Mrs.  Hemans. 

The  first  time  that  Gertrude  walked  out  with  her  husband 
the  dreamlike  feeling  that  had  haunted  her  since  her  marriagfe 
was  stronger  than  ever.  It  seemed  as  if  a  sponge  had  been 
passed  over  the  whole  of  her  previous  life.  Lifford  Grange, 
her  parents,  Audley  Park  and  Woodlands,  Lady  Clara,  Mark 
Apley,  Mr.  Latimer,  and  even  Adrieu  himself,  appeared  like 
recollections  of  some  other  state  of  existence,  totally  uncon- 
nected with  what  now  surrounded  her  ;  exhausted  by  recent 
excitement  the  power  of  suffering  seemed  dulled  within  her. 
She  did  not  feel  just  then  any  poignant  regrets — Adrien  was 
ost  to  her ;  that  was  not  so  much  a  regret  as  the  destruction 
of  one  part  of  her  being.  The  spring  was  broken,  at  least  she 
fancied  so,  and  perhaps  suffered  less  where  she  was  than  she 
would  have  done  at  home  or  el.sewhere.  London  appeared  to  her 
like  a  great  hive  in  which  millions  of  creatures  buzzed  about 
without  disturbing  her.  It  was  better  to  gaze  '^at  people 
moving  along  the  streets  than  to  have  nothing  t,o  look  at. 
She  sat  a  great  deal  at  the  window,  an4  Mary  fancied  that 


tADT-BIRD.  249 

wlien  Maurice  was  out  she  was  watching  for  his  return.  Now 
and  then  she  said  something  in  her  old  way — something  droll 
that  made  them  all  laugh  ;  but  the  sound  of  their  laughter 
always  seemed  to  make  her  grave  again. 

Maurice — like  her — was  in  a  strange  state  of  mind.  There 
were  moments  when  he  looked  vipon  her  witli  transport,  and 
almost  went  wild  with  joy  at  knowing  she  was  his  wife.  But 
liis  happiness  was  far  from  being  perfect.  She  was  not  exact- 
.y  cold  to  him ;  but  yet  there  was  something  in  her  that  pre- 
rented  his  feeling  at  his  ease,  and  this  was  a  most  irritating 
consciousness  to  a  husband.  She  never  consulted  him  about 
anything — never  gave  or  asked  advice  on  any  point.  She  had 
never  evinced  in  her  manner  any  sense  of  a  disparity  of  rank 
between  them  at  any  time,  but  he  thought  her  manner  might 
have  been  different  now  from  what  it  was.  Had  she  been 
proud,  or  petulant,  or  unkind  to  him  he  would  almost  have 
felt  relieved.  To  a  man  who  adored  her  nothing  was  so  try- 
ing as  her  calm  self-possession.  He  never  ventured  to  talk  to 
her  about  affairs  or  business.  She  never  made  a  single  re- 
mark or  asked  a  question  about  their  future  plans  or  the  ex- 
tent of  his  resources.  Mary  told  him  once  or  twice  that  he 
must  leave  off  sending  excuses  to  his  pupils,  and  begin  again 
giving  lessons, — that  his  avocations  as  an  organist  and  a  com- 
poser were  not  sufficient  to  rely  upon, — that  he  was  to  make 
hay  while  the  sun  shone,  and  not  allow  the  grass  to  grow  un- 
der his  feet.  Little  Mary  had  a  lurking  Sancho-like  love  of 
proverbial  sayings,  and  they  often  made  part  of  her  exhorta- 
tions to  Maurice. 

"  You  must  also  go  on  with  your  opera,"  she  said.  "  You 
must  make  yourself  a  name  in  the  world  by  your  talents. 
Lady-13ird  in  marrying  you  gave  up  all  worldly  considera- 
tions ;  but  a  day  may  come  when  even  in  that  way  she  may 
feel  proud  of  her  husband.  Depend  upon  it,  Maurice,  it  will 
not  do  to  cross  your  hands,  and  sit  for  hours  looking  at  her 
beautiful  eyes.     Your  love  must  be  a  spur — not  an  opiate." 

"  Why  does  not  she  talk  to  me  as  you  do,  Mary?  I  could 
do  wonders  if  she  took  an  interest  in  what  I  did." 

"  She  does  not  know  you  yet  as  I  do,  nor  how  you  require 
to  be  kept  up  to  the  mark,  how  fond  you  are  of  going  to 
sleep  on  your  oars." 

"  Mary,  do  you  think  she  loves  me  ?  " 

"  I  think  that  is  a  wicked  question,  Maurice.  When  a 
woman  has  given  up  everything  for  you  and  broken  through 


250  LADY-BIRD. 

every  obstacle  to  become  your  wife,  it  is  uupardonable  to 
doubt  that  she  loves  you." 

'■  G  iven  up  everything  for  me — for  vie !  0  that  I  could 
think  so  !  " 

'•  Maurice,"  Mary  exclaimed,  almost  angrily,  "  if  you  be- 
gin self-tormenting  in  that  way,  and  so  soon,  you  will  make 
yourself  wretched  and  your  wife  also." 

"  Did  you  see  how  pale  she  turned  yesterday,  when  some 
body  called  her  Mrs.  Redmond?" 

"  That  was  perfectly  natural.  The  sort  of  way  in  which 
she  married  cannot  be  always  pleasant  for  her  to  think  of, 
however  she  may  love  you." 

"  Do  you  think  she  looks  as  if  she  loved  me?  Have  you 
ever  seen  a  woman,  married  to  a  man  she  loved,  so  pale  and 
so  silent?  " 

"  But,  Maurice,  remember  her  deep  mourning,  her  mother's 
death,  her  father's  anger,  the  thoughts  she  must  have  about 
her  brother  and  Father  Lifford's  return.  Do  you  think  all 
that  likely  to  make  her  gay?'" 

"  If  she  loved  me  as  I  adore  her,  the  whole  world  might 
hate  and  abuse  me,  every  human  being  perish  around  us,  and 
I  would  clasp  her  to  my  heart,  and  be  the  happiest  of  men." 

•'  No,"  Mary  said  m  a  tone  in  which  there  was  a  little  in- 
dignation.    "  No,  I  do  not  think  she  loves  you  in  that  way." 

"  I  think  she  coitkl  love  in  that  way,"  he  murmured  to 
himself,  and  then  muttered  still  more  indistinctly,  "  Le  vent 
qui  vient  a  travers  la  rnontagne  me  rendra  fou^'' 

About  ten  days  after  Gertrude's  marriage,  Maurice  had 
gone  to  give  some  lessons.  He  had  told  her  the  day  before  of 
his  intention  of  doing  so,  in  a  hesitating  manner,  fancying  it 
might  annoy  her  to  be  reminded  that  he  must  thus  gain  his 
livelihood.  He  was  half  relieved  and  half  disappointed  at 
the  way  in  which  she  took  it,  as  a  matter  of  total  indifference 
to  her.  At  dinner  she  reverted  to  the  subject,  and  asked 
some  joking  questions  about  his  pupils.  There  was  not  a 
grain  of  one  kind  of  pride  in  her  composition.  If  he  had  told 
her  he  was  going  to  turn  shoemaker,  she  would  not  have  cared 
much.  On  the  morning  in  question  she  and  Mary  went  and 
took  a  long  walk  in  Hyde  Park.  Her  spirits  were  a  little  better 
than  usual,  and  walking  fast  seemed  to  exhilarate  her.  Mean- 
while Mrs.  Redmond  was  at  home  working  at  a  carpet  rug,  and 
thinking  of  her  flowers  at  the  cottage,  of  her  tisanes,  her  rose- 
water,  and  her  elder  wine,  and  wondering  if'the  present  occu- 


LADY-BIRD.  251 

pant  of  the  gartlcn  was  as  fond  of  it  as  sho  used  to  be,  and 
then  why  everybody  became  so  pale  in  London.  Mary  and 
Maurice  and  Gertrude  all  looked  wan  and  thin  since  they  had 
been  in  town ;  it  was  a  great  pity  they  could  not  live  in  the 
country.  It  was  of  no  use  to  think  of  that  now,  and  yet  she 
made  certain  matter-of-fact  castles  or  ratlier  cottages  in  the 
air,  which  amused  her  and  made  the  time  pass  fjuickly. 

About  an  hour  after  Gertrude  and  Mary  had  left  the  house, 
and  when  she  was  beginning  to  expect  their  return,  the  door 
was  thrown  open,  and  to  her  amazement,  Father  Lifford  and 
Edgar  walked  into  the  room.  A  pair  of  ghosts  could  not  have 
startled  Mrs.  Redmond  more.  Ilor  knitting  and  her  specta- 
cles fell  on  her  knees,  and  she  looked  the  very  picture  of  con- 
eternation.  Not  having  foreseen  such  a  casualty,  it  had  never 
occurred  to  her  to  inquire  if  Gertrude's  marriage  was  a  se- 
cret ;  she  was  sensible  that  a  grcttt  fault  had  been  committed, 
and  that  an  agitating  discovery  was  at  hand ;  and  her  tender 
heart  and  illogical  understanding  led  her  to  feel  herself,  by  some 
means  or  other,  implicated  in  the  offence;  and  she  would  have 
been  capable  of  accusing  herself  of  it,  and  imploring  Father 
Lifi'ord's  pardon,  just  as  if  she  had  not  been  as  guiltless  of 
the  whole  affair  as  the  babe  unborn,  an  individual  whom  she 
was  often  in  the  habit  of  alluding  to.  She  remained  gazing 
at  her  visitors,  as  if  the  floor  and  not  the  door  had  opened  to 
introduce  him.  He  put  a  chair  for  himself  next  to  hers, 
which  obliged  her  to  sit  down,  while  Edgar, — who  always  look- 
ed stiff, — placed  himself  opposite.  They  had  arrived  that 
morning  from  Spain  by  a  different  ship  than  the  one  they  had 
intended  to  sail  in,  and  finding  no  letters  in  town.  Father  Lif- 
ford had  proposed  to  call  at  Maurice's  lodgings,  with  the  hope 
of  hearing  from  him  what  were  the  last  accounts  from  the 
Grange. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Redmond,"  he  began,  '•  I  hardly  expected  to 
find  you  in  London,  though  we  knew  of  your  intended  removal. 
How  are  you? — and  how  is  Mary? — and  Maurice,  is  he  get- 
ting on  well?  " 

"  As  well  as  can  be  expected,  dear  sir,"  she  answered,  not 
feeling  certain  that  he  was  ignorant  of  the  late  event,  and 
adopting  that  useful  phrase,  as  a  safe  one  in  any  case. 

"  You  have  a  nice  house,  I  see,"  Edgar  remarked,  a  thing 
which  people  often  say  of  houses  where  they  would  hate  to  live 
themselves. 

"  There  is  not  quite  room  enough  for  us '"  she   began, 


262  lADT-BIRD. 

and  then  trembled  as  if  they  knew  exactly  how  many  rooms 
there  were,  and  that  it  would  have  been  large  enough  if  Mau- 
rice had  not  married. 

"Where  is  Mary?"  Father  Llfford  asked;  "I  have 
brought  her  a  little  present  from  Spain." 

"  Oh,  you  are  too  good,"  Mrs.  Redmond  ejaculated,  and  was 
going  to  add,  "  she  does  not  deserve  it,"  so  strong  was  her  im- 
pression of  their  being  all  involved  in  Maurice's  delinquency 

She  took  to  praying  mentally  that  they  might  go  before 
Grertrude  and  Mary  returned ;  and,  what  with  these  mental 
prayers  and  her  deafness,  the  conversation  did  not  go  on 
briskly. 

Father  Lifford  said,  •'  We  are  only  just  landed,  and  were 
glad  enough  to  arrive  after  our  wretched  passage.  We  started 
several  days  before  our  appointed  time,  and  must  have  missed 
our  letters.  I  hope  we  shall  find  his  poor  mother  pretty  well, 
but  I  did  not  quite  like  the  last  accounts  of  her  " 

Now  poor  Mrs.  Redmond's  agitation  increased.  They  did 
not  know  of  Mrs  Lifford's  death.  Then  they  knew  nothing. 
Then  everybody  must  give  themselves  up  for  lost.  Ttiis  was 
her  only  impression,  and  she  looked  so  perturbed  that  Father 
Lifford  perceived  it,  and  a  sudden  fear  shot  through  his  heart. 
A  presentiment  of  sorrow  had  haunted  him  during  'tho  journey  ; 
it  was  doubtless  mercifully  sent  to  prepare  him  for  the  evil  of 
that  day,  which  indeed  was  to  be  &,bundantly  sufficient 
for  it. 

He  was  looking  from  Edgar  to  Mrs.  Redmond,  afraid  of 
questioning  her,  and  receiving  an  answer  which  might  be  too 
sudden  a  blow  for  the  dull  but  affectionate  boy,  who  had  no 
fear  or  misgiving  on  the  subject.  He  took  snuff;  he  got  up 
and  examined  a  print  on  the  chimney  ,  and  then  said,  "  Edgar, 
is  our  cab  waiting  for  us?  Just  open  the  window  and  see." 
The  boy  got  up  to  do  so,  but  before  he  reached  it  the  door 
opened,  and  Gertrude,  in  her  deep  mourning,  entered. 

There  are  moments  in  life  which  no  pen  can  describe,  as 
there  are  effects  of  light  in  the  heavens  which  no  pencil  can 
render.  She  came  in  ;  her  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  the  old  man 
who  had  been  her  mother's  only  friend.  She  neither  fainted 
nor  screamed,  but  a  sort  of  convulsion  passed  over  her  face, 
and  throwing  open  the  door  of  the  back  room,  she  cried, 
"  Here,  here,  and  with  you  alone."  He  followed  her  mechani- 
cally, and  sat  down,  for  his  limbs  could  hardly  support  him. 
She  hid  her  face  on  the  side  of  the  arm-chair  into  wnich  he 


LADY-BIRD.  253 

bad  fallen,  and  murmured,  "  For  licr  sake  who  died  in  my 
arms  and  who  prayed  for  me  with  her  last  breath,  do  not 
spurn  me  now  !  "  The  old  man  tried  to  raise  her  head  with 
his  trembling  hand,  but  not  succeeding,  he  laid  it  upon  her 
forehead,  and  said,  "  God's  will  be  done,  my  child.  She  is 
dead,  then,  your  poor  mother.''  Surprised,  she  raised  her 
liead  for  a  moment,  and,  in  her  paleness  and  her  suffering, 
looked  so  like  her  whom  bespoke  of,  that  his  stout  heart  gave 
way,  and  turning  away  from  her,  he  wept,  but  held  out  his 
hand,  which  she  seized  and  covered  with  kisses. 

'"Perhaps  for  the  last  time,"  she  again  murmured,  for  she 
felt  he  knew  nothing;  and  then  suddenly  letting  it  go,  she 
Btood  before  him  pale,  resolute  and  stern : — "  You  are  weep- 
ing, but  there  is  greater  suffering  in  store  for  you  than  you  are 
now  enduring." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Gertrude  ?  Has  anything  happened 
to  your  father  ?  Good  heavens  !  why  are  you  here  ?  Have 
you  lost  him  too  ?     For  God's  sake,  speak  !  " 

"  He  is  alive,"  she  said  hurriedly  ;  "  he  is  alive  ;  nothing 
has  happened  to  him,  but " 

"  But  what,  but  what,  Gertrude  ?     You  terrify  me  !  " 

_"  I  have  left   him   for   ever,   and    have   married    Maurice 

Redmond, -not  from  love,  but  from  despair."     She  added 

the  last  words  in  a  whisper  that  to  the  ears  of  the  listener 
sounded  fearfully  distinct ;  and  then  she  stood  again  silent 
and  motionless,  as  if  awaiting  her  sentence.  He  was  silent, 
too  ;  but  the  veins  in  his  forehead  were  swelled  to  bursting, 
and  his  eyes  glared  from  beneath  his  bushy  eyebrows  ;  his 
hands  trembled  ;  he  tried  to  get  up,  but,  unable  to  stand,  fell 
back  on  the  chair  and  groaned  deeply. 

"  Gertrude,"  he  hoarsely  ejaculated,  "  did  you  abandon 
your  mother  1     Did  you  kill  her,  unhappy  child  ?  " 

"Abandon  her!  I  have  told  you  she  died  in  my  arms. 
Her  last  words  were  a  blessing ;  her  last  embrace,  her  last 
look  were  mine.  I  have  nothing  left  but  that  recollection ; 
lothing  but  the  memory  of  that  hour.  She  was  left  to  me — 
to  my  love,  to  my  tears,  to  my  solitary  watchings,  till  she  was 
borne  to  her  grave  ;  and  then  I  was  alone  ;  and  grief,  passion, 
and  despair  wrought  like  madness  in  my  brain.  He  robbed 
me  of  all  earthly  hope  ;  he  forced  a  husband  upon  me  on  the 
very  morrow  of  my  mother's  funeral  ;  he  drove  me  wild,  and 
accidetitally — yes,  I  swear  it,  accidentally — I  met  with  one 
who   has  always  loved  me.      It  is  too  long  to  tell  how  I  was 


254  LADir-BIRD. 

tempted — drawn  on  by  the  power  of  that  love  which  had  been 
true  and  constant,  when  every  other  had  failed  me,  and  which 
at  that  moment  offered  me  a  refuge.  I  fled  with  him,  I 
married  him,  and  I  am  cast  off — even  by  you  !  "  she  exclaim- 
ed ;  for  Father  LifFord  had  risen,  and  seemed  about  to  leave 
the  room  without  a  glance  or  a  word. 

There  was  a  terrible  struggle  in  his  heart.  His  naturally 
proud  and  violent  character  was  asserting  itself  at  that 
moment.  She  had  degraded  her  family  and  her  name  ;  she 
had  dishonoured  her  mother's  memory  ;  thrown  a  slur  on  her 
father's  character,  and  had  been  true  and  just  to  none  ;  for  he 
knew  she  had  married  one  man  while  she  loved  another,  and 
he  was  at  that  moment  aware  that  the  noblest  and  truest 
heart  in  the  world  was  hers ;  he  possessed  the  proofs  of  that 
devoted  affection,  and  his  very  compassion  for  her  miserable 
destiny  augmented  at  first  the  bitterness  of  his  wrath.  lie 
could  have  cursed  her  for  the  rash  self-destruction  she  had 
wrought,  and  for  an  instant  he  felt  it  impossible  to  look  at  or 
to  speak  to  her.  But  he  was  a  priest ;  and  what  to  him,  as 
such,  were  family  ties,  and  honour,  and  reputation  ?  What 
was  her  own  earthly  happiness,  or  that  of  others,  that  it  should 
move  him  thus  1  What  concern  had  he  with  aught  in  com- 
parison with  her  soul — her  immortal  soul  ?  Would  violence 
awaken  contrition  for  the  past  ?  Would  contempt  soften  a 
hardened  heart,  or  awake  from  despondency  a  prostrate 
courage  ?  He  prayed  for  calmness,  for  patience,  for  meek- 
ness. He  bade  himself  forget  that  it  was  Gertrude  Lifford 
that  was  standing  before  him.  He  forced  himself  to  look  upon 
her  as  he  would  have  done  on  any  suffering  and  penitent 
woman  whom  it  was  his  duty  to  exhort,  advise  and  console. 
Gravely  and  calmly  he  turned  towards  her,  and  said  : 

"  Gertrude,  my  child,  you  repent  of  your  sin  ?  of  having 
forsaken  your  home  ?  of  having  abandoned  your  father  ?  " 

"  No,  Father  Lifford — no.  I  will  speak  the  truth.  I  can- 
not deceive  you — not  even  to  obtain  kind  looks  or  worda 
which  I  long  for :  more  than  I  can  express.  I  do  repent  of 
having  married  poor  Maurice  " — here  she  again  dropped  her 
voice,  and  spoke  in  that  painful  whispering  tone — ''of  having 
married  him  without  any  sentiment  but  gratitude.  And  I  do  not 
even  always  feel  that.  He  might  have  seen  how  distracted  I 
was  ;  he  ought  not  to  have  married  me  without  asking  me  if  I 
loved  him.  But  it  is  wrong  and  ungenerous  to  say  this 
Mine  has  been  the  fault;   let   miue   alone   be  the  penalty,  if 


LADY-BIRD.  251 


possible.  I  repent  of  having  wronged  him,  I  repent  of  having 
grieved  and  offended  you,  but  as  to  mj'  father,  he  has  more 
need  of  my  forgiveness  than  I  of  his  ;  //.c  has  broken  my 
heart — I  have  only  wounded  his  pride." 

He  gazed  upon  her,  and  she  trembled  under  that  silent 
reproach.  "  Poor  child  !  ".he  said  at  last,  -'God  deals  with 
you  in  His  secret  way ;  through  much  sorrow  He  will  bring 
you  to  His  feet.  You  will  not  know  one  instant's  peace,  till 
you  have  forgotten,  in  the  depths  of  self-abasement,  tliat 
others  have  sinned  against  you.  The  day  when  you  will  im- 
plore from  your  father  a  pardon  you  perhaps  never  will 
receive,  may  be  the  turning  point  in  your  destiny — not  for 
time  but  for  eternity." 

"  Do  1/otf-  forgive  me?  "  she  said. 

"  There  is  no  ([uostion  of  my  forgiveness,  my  child  :  as 
your  father's  uncle  I  dare  not  say  I  f(jrgive  you,  and  your 
brotlicr  shall  leave  this  house  without  speaking  to  one  wlio 
has  brougtif  shame  and  sorrow  upon  his  home.  He  must  ob- 
tain his  father's  permission  before  he  sees  you,  Gertrude. 
But.  0  my  chikl,  what  have  I  to  do  but  to  call  thee,  not  to 
my  feet,  but  to  my  arms  ;  to  hold  thee  for  an  instant  to  my 
heart,  while  I  implore  that  merciful  God  whom  1  have  served 
from  my  youth  up  to  bless  thee.  JMy  life  will  not  be 
lonj 


jg- 


"  Do  not  die,  Father  Lifford,  do  not  die,"  she  convulsively 
ejaculated,  while  she  hid  her  face  on  his  arm. 

"  If  I  am  never  to  see  you  again,  my  child  — " 

"  0,  but  you  will  see  me.  You  said  you  would  not  dis- 
card me.  I  will  not  let  you  go  if  you  do  not  promise  to  see 
me  again." 

"  As  much  as  man  can  promise  it,  Gertrude,  I  do  ;  be 
calm,  and  listen  to  me.  I  fear  for  you  other  reckless  mo- 
ments of  what  you  may  call  despair,  or  a  weak  sinking  under 
the  weight  you  have  chosen  to  carry.  It  is  a  heavy  cioss 
you  have  taken  up,  my  child,  bat  it  may  be  a  school  for  the 
highest  virtues :  you  were  rich,  and  you  have  embraced  pov- 
erty; you  were  proud,  and  you  have  disgraced  yourself  for 
ever  ;  you  loved,  and  you  have  put  an  eternal  barrier  between 
yourself  and " 

''He  did,  he  did,"  she  murmured  ;  "  T  cannot  think  of  that 
now.  There,  there  wa,s  the  feeling  that  maddened  me.  He 
did  it,  not  I." 

Father  Lifford  saw  that  she  had  fancied  herself  forsaken  bj 


250  LADY-BIRD^ 

Adrien,  and  felt  he  must  not  at  that  moment  undeceive  her, 
'•  You  have  entered,"  he  went  on,  '•  on  the  most  thorny  and 
difficult  path  that  a  woman  can  tread,  but  in  proportion  to  your 
trials  let  your  courage  rise.  From  heroic  virtue  such  a  life  of 
privation  and  obscurity  might  have  been  adopted.  Act  as  if 
you,  out  of  virtue,  had  sought  it. ,  Accept  the  destiny  you 
have  chosen,  and  devote  yourself  to  your  husband  as  if  you 
loved  him  ;  and  forgive  him,  Gertrude,  all  that  I  can  scarcely 
forgive.  Remember  that  Ids  excuse — and  in  your  eyes  at 
least  it  should  now  be  one — is  the  love  which  blinded  him  to 
the  fearful  sin  he  was  committing.  Henceforward,  my  child 
fulfil  every  duty  with  patient  humility  ;  toil  with  your  hands 
and  with  your  whole  heart,  and  if  needs  be,  endure  hunger  and 
fatigue.  Expiate  the  past,  and  at  each  trial  you  may  encoun 
ter,  look  down,  and  feel  tlntt  yours  is  the  fault,  but  also  look 
upward,  and  believe  that  the  lesson  comes  from  Grod." 

In  this  stern  advice  there  was  something  suitable  to  Ger- 
trude's present  state  of  mind.  It  wanted  softening  on  the  one 
hand,  and  bracing  on  the  other.  This  interview  had,  for  a 
time,  that  double  effect  upon  her.  Once  more  Father  Lifford 
blessed  her,  and  allowed  her  this  time  to  kneel  to  receive  his 
blessing :  then  he  left  her,  and  called  Edgar  as  he  passed 
through  the  other  room.  He  took  his  arm  as  they  walked 
down  stairs,  and  refused  to  let  him  speak.  Mrs.  Redmond 
had  abruptly  left  him  alone  when  G-ertrude  had  drawn  Father 
Lifford  away,  and  the  poor  boy's  eyes  were  red  with  weeping ; 
for  he  had  guessed,  from  her  mourning,  that  his  mother  was 
dead.  He  could  not  conceive  why  he  was  hurried  away  in 
this  manner.  When  he  got  into  the  carriage  his  forebodings 
were  realised,  and  the  cause  of  that  abrupt  departure  ex- 
plained. The  grief,  the  horror,  the  amazement  which  suc- 
ceeded one  another  on  his  usually  tranquil  face  were  remark- 
able. He  spoke  wi-th  such  severity  of  his  sister's  conduct 
that  his  uncle  was  obliged  to  say,  "  Come,  Edgar,  you  could 
not  say  more  if  she  had  committed  a  crime."  And  when  he 
wept  over  his  father's  fate,  and  the  dreadful  blow  which  had 
fallen  upon  him,  speaking  of  him  as  if  he  had  been  the  kindest 
of  parents,  and  in  the  strongest  terms  of  his  sister's  ingrati- 
tude, again  Father  Lifford  coughed  and  moved  uneasily  in  hia 
place. 

"  He  is  much  to  be  pitied,  and  you  must  do  all  in  your 
power  to  conifm-t  him.  and  to  soften  him  towards  Gertrude. 
And  remember,  Edgar,  when  you  marry  and  have  children,  bo 


LADY-BIRD.  257 

always  kind  and  affectionate  to  them,  and  do  not  fancy  that 
all  the  faults  are  on  one  side,  when  such  sad  events  occur  in 
families.  Edgar,  my  boy,  when  I  was  teaching  you  the  Cate- 
chism, I  do  not  think  I  spoke  to  you  enough  about  the  dread- 
ful sin  of  pride.  If  we  all  had  been  less  proud,  this  might 
not  have  happened.  Alas  !  when  wc  draw  near  to  the  grave, 
we  see  things  in  a  different  light,  even  when  we  have  tried  to 
act  rightly  during  life.  Let  us  try  never  to  mistake  our  vices 
for  virtues." 

When  they  arrived  at  home,  Mr.  Lifford  met  them  with 
his  usual  manner.  He  embraced  his  son,  and  shook  hands 
with  his  uncle  ;  and  saying  a  few  words  about  his  wife's  death, 
;vhich  made  Edgar  weep,  he  gave  each  of  them  some  things 
she  had  bequeathed  to  them.  Not  a  single  allusion  did  he 
make  to  Gertrude.  Ilcr  picture  had  been  removed  from  the 
drawing-room,  and  the  old  butler  had  taken  possession  of  it. 
He  silently  pointed  it  out  one  day  to  Father  Lifford,  who 
sighed  deeply,  and  said,  "  Will  you  lend  it  me  for  a  little 
while?"  and  had  it  hung  up  in  his  room.  He  was  not  well, 
and  seldom  left  it  now.  Edgar  often  came  to  sit  with  him 
and  he  showed  him  much  affection,  but  the  old  man's  heart  was 
sad  and  heavy.  The  patient  suffering  mother,  where  was  she? 
In  Heaven,  he  trusted,  and  felt  consoled.  The  reckless  and 
beautiful  child,  where  was  she  ?  Tossed  by  the  roughcfct  waves 
of  life  ;  drifting  along  on  the  world's  wide  sea.  But  she  was 
breasting  the  billows  and  might  yet  reach  the  haven,  and  that 
thought  gave  him  comfort.  But  where  was  the  man  whom  lie 
had  loved  in  his  youth, — the  son  of  his  brother,  whom  he  had 
nursed  on  his  knees?  He  was  near  him,  but  on  what  road? 
A  traitor  to  his  God,  for  he  was  called  a  Catholic,  and  was  one 
only  in  name, — the  destroyer  of  his  wife,  for  he  had  blighted 
her  life,  and  embittered  her  death, — the  author  of  his  dau'^di- 
ter's  misery,  for  he  had  driven  her  to  despair,  and  goaded  her 
to  sin.  On  what  road  was  he  then  ?  The  road  to  destruction. 
The  old  man  prayed  for  him  ;  for  the  faith  that  sleeps  may  yet 
live  again,  and  the  love  that  is  cold  may  yet  warm  again,  and 
the  heart  that  is  hard  may  soften  or  break. 

He  prayed  a  great  deal  in  the  chapel  and  elsewhere.     He 
sometimes  went  to  sit  alone  in  the  room  which  had  been  Mrs 
Lifford's.     Once  he  raised  his  eyes   to  a  picture,  which   re- 
minded him  of  something  in  the  past,  and  groaning  in  spirit, 

lie  exclaimed,  ''  0  child,  child  !  if    tliou   hadst  known ," 

and  then  stopped  short.     He  missed  her  at  meals  :  he  missed 

17 


258  LADY-BIRD. 

her  in  the  drawing-room,  in  the  chapel,  in  the  gardens.  Hei 
voice,  her  smile,  her  faults,  her  follies — he  missed  them  all. 
He  grew  very  ill,  and  knew  that  he  was  dying.  Then  he  sent 
for  his  nephew,  and  talked  to  him  a  long  time ;  and  when 
Mr.  Lifford  left  the  room,  he  was  paler  than  when  his  wife 
expired — paler  than  when  his  daughter  fled.  The  old  priest 
died,  and  his  grave  was  made  near  to  Mrs.  Lifford's.  He  be- 
queathed the  little  he  possessed  to  Gertrude,  and  sent  her  his 
blessing,  through  Mr.  Erving,  who  had  attended  him  in  his 
last  moments.  Soon  after  his  death,  the  establishment  at  the 
Grange  was  broken  up,  and  Mr.  Lifford  and  his  son  went  to 
travel  abroad. 

When  Gertrude  received  the  news  of  her  uncle's  death, 
she  experienced  a  sensation  of  such  utter  desolation  that  it 
prostrated  for  a  while  all  her  powers  of  exertion.  J  Jut  the 
resolutions  she  had  made  after  her  last  interview  with  him 
were  confirmed  ;  and  when  she  recovered  from  the  indisposi- 
tion which  had  followed  that  severe  shock,  all  the  listlessness 
of  her  manner  had  disappeared,  and  an  expression  of  stern 
endurance  and  energetic  self-reliance  had  taken  its  place. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"No  wounds  like  those  a  woundej  si)irit  fecKs; 
No  cure  for  siicli,  till  Gdd,  who  iiijiki's  Iheiii,  lieiila. 
And  tlioii,  sad  snit'crcj-,  under  nameless  ill, 
That  yields  not  to  the  touch  ofliinnan  skill, 
To  thee  the  dayspriiiir,  and  the  blaze  of  noon, 
The  purple  eveninj;,  and  resplendent  moon, 
Bhine  not;  or  undesired,  (jr  haled,  shine. 
8een  throiiarh  the  medium  of  a  elond  like  thine. 
Yet  seek  Ilim,  in  His  favour  life  is  found  ; 
All  Miss  beside  a  shadow  or  a  eloud  ; 
Then  Heaven  eelipsed  so  lon^',  and  this  dull  earth, 
Shall  seem  to  start  intoasccond  birth." 

C0WPEB> 

"Never  did  thine  eye 
Look  on  me  but  in  glistening  tenderness ; 

Never  did  thy  voice 
But  in  affection's  (leei)est  inusic  speak  ; 
.  Never  was  thine  heart 

Aught  but  the  kindliest  sheltering  home  to  mine." 

Ms8.  HE.vA2n, 

What  is  called  the  season  was  beginning  again  ;  and  spring 
was  showing  its  sickly  and  jiromature  verdure  in  the  squares 
and  the  gardens  of  London.      On  a  warm  April  day — a  rare 


LADY-BIRD.  259 

thing  and  a  beautiful — wlien  a  few  soft  sliowers  bad  washed 
off  the  bouses  and  the  trees  some  of  the  accumulated  dust  of 
March,  Maurice  was  slowly  walking  back  from  the  railway- 
station,  where  he  bad  accompanied  bis  step  mother  and  Mary, 
who  were  returning  to  the  country.  Mrs.  Redmond's  health 
had  suifered  so  much  from  the  winter  spent  in  Loudon,  that 
the  change  bad  been  considered  absolutely  necessary  for  her  ; 
and  now  that  Maurice  was  married,  there  seemed  no  reason 
for  their  remaining  in  town.  Gertrude  bad  applied  herself 
with  unwearied  patience  to  learn  the  details  of  their  simple 
housekeeping.  She  worked  indefatigably  from  morning  to 
night.  Never  once  since  the  day  of  her  last  interview  with 
Father  Liflford,  had  she  complained  of  anything^  or  omitted 
any  one  of  the  duties  of  an  active  and  devoted  wife.  She 
worked  at  her  needle  for  several  hours  in  the  day  ;  she  went 
into  the  kitchen,  and  with  that  rare  intelligence  which  charac- 
terized her,  she  mastered  all  the  details  of  domestic  economy, 
and  spent  less  money,  and  made  her  husband  as  comfortable 
as  the  most  experienced  housewife  could  have  done.  She 
never  had  spoken  harshly  or  unkindly  to  him.  Her  submis- 
sion was  implicit.  She  obeyed  him  as  a  nun  obeys  her  supe- 
rior, or  a  soldier  his  captain.  Without  him  she  never  went 
out,  except  early  in  the  morning  to  church  or  on  business. 
With  him  she  went  wherever  be  asked  her — into  Hyde  Park, 
by  the  side  of  the  Serpentine,  when  the  full  tide  of  society 
was  swarming  along  its  shore, — still  in  her  mourning,  with 
her  majestic  beauty — for  it  was  majestic  from  grace  and  dig- 
nity— however  slight  her  form  and  delicate  her  features.  Some 
have  walked  on  hot  ploughshares,  and  not  winced  as  they  did 
so,  weak  women  as  they  were,  when  their  honour  was  at  stake. 
Perhaps  even  they  did  not  suffer  more  than  she  did  during 
these  summer  walks  by  the  cool  river,  under  the  old  trees  that 
have  shaded  so  much  misery  and  joy.  Numberless  eyes  were 
turned  upon  her  in  curiosity  and  admiration  ;  never  once  did 
they  obtain  a  glance  from  those  dark  orbs,  which,  veiled  by 
their  thick  lashes,  seemed  turned  inward,  as  it  were,  so  little 
notice  did  they  bestow  on  any  outward  object.  She  toiled  all 
day  long.  She  copied  out  music  for  him  till  her  head  throb- 
bed, and  he  snatched  the  pen  from  her  aching  fingers  ;  but 
she  never  asked  him  to  play. 

Once  be  began  the  first  notes  of  the  Lady-Bird  song.  She 
turned  pale,  and  he  saw  it.  He  then  sang  the  "  Fou  de  To- 
lede,"  and   her  lips  became  white.     He  snatched  his  hat,  and 


260  LADY  BTRD. 

rushed  out  of  the  room  with  a  feeling  of  rage  in  his  heart. 
What  could  he  do,  and  what  more  could  she  do  ?  She  ful- 
filled her  duty  to  the  uttermost  ;  did  not  even  show  depres- 
sion, or  give  way  to  lowncss  of  spirits.  What  had  he  to  com- 
plain of? — That  she  did  not  love  him.  Do  women  devote 
themselves  so  patiently  and  unweariedly  to  husbands  they  do 
not  love  ?  Mary,  still  the  only  person  to  whom  he  opened  his 
heart,  had  reproached  him  almost  severely  for  his  misgivings. 
She  had  become  enthusiastic  about  Gertrude.  She  called  her 
an  angel, — thought  her  conduct  most  touching  and  admirable 
No  one  pitied  him,  and  yet  his  heart  was  breaking.  At  that 
time  he  suffered  probably  more  than  she  did.  Her  strong  will 
and  independent  judgment  had  adopted  a  line  on  which  every 
energy  of  her  soul  was  bent.  She  had  taken  hold  of  those 
words  of  Father  Lifford  in  their  last  interview,  "  Devote  your- 
self to  your  husband  as  though  you  loved  him,"  and  acted 
upon  them  to  the  letter,  but  not  in  the  spirit — for  that  devo- 
tion hardened  instead  of  softening  her  heart.  She  joined  t(^ 
that  recollection  one  of  her  old  and  inveterate  errors, — that 
the  will  can  influence  actions,  but  not  feelings.  She  found 
a  sort  of  stern  pleasure  in  making  every  sacrifice,  and  even 
that  of  her  own  will,  on  a  thousand  occasions,  because  it  was 
her  will  to  give  up  everything  but  the  one  proud  sense  of 
having  paid  her  debt  of  duty  to  the  uttermost  farthing,  in  a 
coin  which  the  debtor  could  not  question,  but  which  was 
worthless  to  his  aching  soul.  She  did  not  wrong  him  even  in 
thought — she  never  wilfully  directed  lier  thoughts  to  Adrien. 
Not  one  of  the  many  little  objects  associated  with  the  mem- 
ory of  her  happier  days  did  she  preserve.  She  never  opened 
his  books,  or  dwelt  upon  the  past,  but  the  heart  from  which 
she  shut  him  out  was  henceforward  to  remain  a  desert.  Mau- 
rice had  not  ventured  to  read  it  before  he  availed  himself  of 
her  distracted  state  of  mind  to  hurrj'^  her  into  marrying  him. 
and  he  had  no  right  to  insist  oh  reading  it  now. 

It  was  a  subtle  error  under  which  she  was  acting.  She 
never  tried  to  love  or  prayed  for  the  power  of  loving  her  hus- 
band ;  and  who  could  have  supposed  this  to  be  the  case  that 
had  seen  her  anticipating  his  slightest  wish — bearing  his  irrita- 
bility (for  he  was  becoming  very  irritable)  with  a  patience 
which  he  was  sometimes  tempted  in  moments  of  exasperation 
to  curse,  while  to  all  otheis,  and  even  to  herself,  it  must  have 
seemed  the  highest  virtue.  When  he  was  ill  she  sat  up  with 
him   all  night ;  she  wrote  his  notes  of  excuse   to  his  pupils. 


LADY-BIRD.  201 

She  went  licrsclf  to  his  patrons  to  apologise  for  his  absence 
from  thoir  concerts.  She  seemed  to  have  quelled  her  pride, 
mastered  her  temper,  and  shaken  off  her  indolence.  But  to 
have  looked  at  him  in  a  manner  that  he  might  have  mistaken 
for  love,  to  have  used  a  single  word  of  endearment  that  might 
have  implied  more  tenderness  than  she  felt,  that  she  was 
firmly  resolved  never  to  do ;  and  with  the  characteristic  pecu- 
liarity of  her  race,  was  all  the  time,  as  Father  Liiford  had  said, 
mistaking  a  vice  for  a  virtue.  He  was  supported  in  his  trials 
neither  hy  the  proud  consciousness  nor  the  illusion  of  virtue. 
He  knew  well  that  he  had  not  the  courage  or  the  justice  to 
test  her  feelings  previous  to  the  decisive  hour,  by  the  fulfilment 
of  a  solemn  duty,  the  accomplishment  of  a  sacred  trust :  the 
sin  had  been  great,  but  it  had  not  been  delibei'ate.  The  atone- 
ment was  long  and  severe.  Through  the  stern  calmness  of  hci* 
face  he  was  continually  striving  to  discern  what  its  serenity 
concealed.  It  was  like  the  veil  on  the  face  of  the  Prophet 
of  Khorassan  ;  he  dreaded  and  he  wished  to  tear  away  that 
smooth  impenetrable  barrier  between  himself  and  the  object 
of  his  continual  misgivings,  his  still  passionate  affection,  and 
his  perpetual  scrutiny.  He  tried  every  means  to  pierce 
through  it.  He  proposed  to  read  out  loud  to  her,  and  she 
agreed  to  it  as  to  everything  else  he  suggested.  This  was 
pei'haps  the  hardest  trial  to  her  equanimity.  He  chose  what- 
ever was  most  likely  to  move  her  feelings,  and  by  awakening 
emotion  to  bring  to  light  the  secret  sulferings  of  her  soul. 
He  was  ingenious  in  the  art  of  tormenting  himself  and  her. 
He  knew  how  to  select  the  poem,  the  tragedy,  or  the  novel 
that  would  probe  deepest  the  wound  which  she  concealed  with 
such  stoical  courage.  He  used  suddenly  to  raise  his  eyes 
from  the  book  when  affecting  or  startling  passages  occurred  in 
these  experimental  readings,  and  see  with  mingled  sensations 
of  pity  and  of  rage  the  tear  gathering  on  the  eyelid,  but  for- 
bidden to  flow ;  the  deepening  flush  of  the  cheek,  the  momen- 
tary abstraction,  the  upward  gaze,  or  the  trembling  of  the 
hand  when  each  muscle  of  the  face  was  compelled  to  be  mo- 
tionless. 

Who  that  had  taken  a  cursory  survey  of  that  little  room 
on  such  evenings  as  these  would  have  guessed  the  misery  that 
was  dwelling  in  those  two  young  hearts  ?  The  beautiful  wife, 
in  all  her  stately  loveliness,  sitting  by  the  round  table  with 
her  work  before  her,  diligently  employed  in  mending  the  clothes, 
01  sewing  the  linen  required  in  the  honse,  never  relaxing  one 


2G2  LABY-BIRD. 

instant  from  her  toil,  and  listening  in  silence  to  the  accents  of 
love  or  sorrow,  of  passion  or  regret,  by  the  ablest  readers^ 
masters,  and  spokesmen  of  the  human  heart :  and  he,  tho 
artist,  the  husband,  the  lover,  the  gainer  of  the  treasure  which 
has  turned  to  stone  in  his  grasp,  pale  with  suspense,  with  eyes 
tliat  flash  fire  through  gathering  tears,  and  a  voice  that  trem- 
bles with  emotion,  reading  what  feeds  perhaps  the  flame  whicli 
burns  under  that  ice  without  thawing  the  suface  that  hardens 
as  he  gazes, — how  like  happiness  was  the  outward  aspect  of 
that  home,  how  deep  a  current  of  suff'ering  was  flowing  under- 
neath ! 

While  she  every  day  grew  more  proudly  and  harshly  vir- 
tuous, he  became  more  waj'wardly  and  deeply  miserable.  Fits 
of  ill-humour  succeeded  one  another,  bursts  of  anger  imme- 
diately repented  of.  but  recurring  again  at  frequent  intervals ; 
days  of  dejection,  in  which  all  labour  was  irksome,  and  con 
straint  insupportable.  His  talents  were  paralyzed  in  that 
mental  conflict.  He  lost  all  energy  for  study  and  composition, 
and  gradually  most  of  his  pupils  discontinued  taking  lessons. 
Then  he  felt  an  intense  wish  for  any  change,  and  he  pressed 
her  to  go  into  such  society  as  was  open  to  them,  and  to  accept 
any  invitations  that  were  sent  her.  At  first  they  were  few,  and 
from  persons  of  obscure  station.  She  did  not  seem  much  to 
care  where  she  went,  and  dressed  and  talked  and  sat  up  as 
long  as  he  chose,  and  listened  to  those  who  spoke  to  her,  as  if 
she  were  neither  more  nor  less  unhappy  in  one  place  than  in 
another.  She  could  hardly  fail  to  be  agreeable,  when  she  ex- 
erted herself  at  all :  her  conversation  was  irresistibly  interest- 
ing to  those  who  surrounded  her,  attracted  by  her  singular 
beauty  and  the  circumstances  of  her  marriage.  She  never 
wore  anything  but  a  black  velvet  gown :  one  day  he  asked  her 
why  she  did  not  put  on  her  diamond  necklace,  when  they  were 
going  to  some  concert  where  he  was  to  play.  She  did  so  im- 
mediately :  and  no  hair  shirt  ever  felt  so  irksome  to  its 
wearer ;  but  she  bore  these  little  trials,  like  the  great  ones, 
with  unflinching  fortitude. 

At  a  party  one  night  at.the  house  of  a  painter  of  eminence, 
who  had  been  many  years  a  friend  of  Maurice's,  she  met  Mr. 
Egerton.  He  did  not  know  her  again  at  first ; — but  after  a 
moment's  hesitation  he  felt  sure  he  was  not  mistaken,  and 
claimed  acquaintance  with  her.  With  the  extraordinary  self- 
control  she  possessed,  she  did  not  betray  the  least  agitation 
but  conversed  with  him  for  a  long  time — not  playfully,  as  of 


I.ADT-BIRD.  268 

old,  but  with  more  cleverness  still  than  in  former  days — 
talked  about  politics,  and  literature,  and  a  variety  of  subjects, 
as  if  her  heart  were  not  aching  to  a  degree  which  would  have 
made  her  groan  aloud  had  she,  for  an  instant,  given  way. 
lie  told  her  Lady  Clara  Audley  was  still  abroad,  and  was,  he 
knew,  anxious  to  learn  her  direction  that  she  might  write  to 
her.  In  her  last  letter  she  had  said :  "  Mind  you  find  out 
Boracthing  about  my  Lady-Bird?  I  will  not  lose  sight  of 
her."  A  name,  a  phrase,  the  tone  of  voice  in  which  a  word  i 
uttered,  how  sliarp  is  the  pang  they  can  inflict !  biit  after  a 
long  dull  aching  pain  there  is  sometimes  a  sensation  of  relief 
in  a  change  of  suffering,  and  she  went  on  talking  of  Lady 
Clara,  and  asking  questions  about  her. 

"  How  does  she  like  Paris'?     How  does  Paris  like  her?" 

"  The  liking  is  mutual.  She  is  excessively  admired,  and 
she  amuses  herself  from  morning  to  night  with  every  gay  and 
serious  thing  that  comes  in  her  way.  She  has  friends  of  all 
sorts  and  kinds,  and  they  take  her  to  the  most  different  places. 
She  sees  people  of  the  most  opposite  politics,  and  there  are  cu- 
rious meetings  in  her  drawing-room.  During  the  short  time  that 
I  was  with  her,  she  gave  me  a  specimen  of  the  various  intei-ests 
to  be  found  in  this  new  page  of  her  life  It  was  high  time  that 
she  should  go  abroad  ;  she  had  exhausted  novelty  in  England, 
and  wanted  some  new  canvas  to  work  upon.  It  would  amuse 
you  to  hear  all  tlie  different  things  that  she  does  in  succession. 
How  she  goes  from  a  creche,  or  an  hospice,  to  the  morning  re- 
hearsal of  an  opera  ;  from  a  sermon  at  St.  lloch  to  a  dinner  at 
a  cafe ;  how  she  begins  the  day  with  a  messe  en  musique  at  the 
Madeleine,  and  ends  with  the  theatre  of  the  Palais-Royal. 
Her  Paris  Sundays  are  curious  :  she  rushes  from  one  church 
to  another,  from  the  discourses  of  an  Unitarian  preacher  to  the 
conferences  of  Father  Lacordaire  ;  from  the  Swedenborgian 
meeting,  or  perhaps  from  the  synagogue,  to  Notre-Dame-des- 
Victoires,  where  she  braves  the  heat  and  pushes  through  the 
crowd,  for  the  sake  of  the  thousand  voices  that  strike  up  at 
once  their  enthusiastic  cantiques.  I  was  nearly  dead  after  fol- 
owing  her  through  her  successive  religious  amusements  last 
Sunday." 

'•  She  must  be  very  good  not  to  be  afraid  of  thus  playing 
with  the  most  tremendous  subjects  on  earth  and  beyond  it." 

"  Why,  never  having  hurt  a  fly  in  her  life,  or  spoken  an 
unkind  word — though  she  may  have  uttered  many  thoughtless 
ones — I  suppose  her  conscience  has  no  need  to  give  her  unea- 


264  LADY-BIRD. 

giness.  Time  has  as  little  ruffled  her  soul  as  wrinkled  her 
face ; — she  is  nearly  as  pretty  as  ever." 

"  At  that  moment  Mr.  Egerton  was  struck  with  the  ex- 
pression of  Gertrude's  face,  on  which  twenty-two  years  of  life 
had  left  traces  which  nearly  forty  had  failed  to  impress  on  his 
sister's.  It  was  not  age,  it  was  not  even  sorrow  that  had 
marked  it  thus.  It  was  something  that  he  could  not  under- 
stand, something  that  made  him  write  to  Lady  Clara  the  next 
day :  "  Your  Lady-Bird  is,  if  possible,  more  beautiful  than 
ever ;  but,  if  I  am  not  much  mistaken,  the  iron  has  entered 
into  her  soul.  I  never  quite  understood  that  expression  be- 
fore, but  it  came  spontaneously  into  my  head  as  I  looked  at 
her  last  night." 

Whether  from  curiosity  to  see  the  effect  which  would  be 
produced  upon  her  by  the  mention  of  the  name  of  a  person 
whom,  at  one  time,  she  had  been  supposed  to  like,  or  from 
thoughtlessness,  he  went  on  to  tell  her  that  he  had  seen  Adrien 
at  Paris,  and  related  on  what  occasion.  How  he  had  gone  one 
day  with  his  sister  to  the  subterranean  chapel  of  St.  Sulpice, 
where  what  is  called  the  Associations  of  the  Sainte  Famille 
hold  their  assemblies.  Six  or  eisjht  hundred  workmen,  with 
their  wives  and  children,  attend  conferences,  which  create  a 
singular  bond  of  union  between  them  and  those  who  devote 
themselves  to  their  instruction ;  the  humanising  effect  of  this 
intercourse,  and  the  strange  interest  which  is  attached  to  a 
great  school  for  men,  makes  it  one  of  the  most  exciting 
and  touching  scenes  imaginable.  Laymen  in  great  numbers, 
and  some  of  them  eminent  in  various  ways,  second  the  clergy, 
and  often  address  familiar  discourses  to  those  rough  children 
of  St.  Francis  Xavier ;  for  it  is  under  that  wonder-working 
name  that  these  men  in  blouses  enroll  themselves.  Mr.  Egerton 
had  briefly  described  this  curious  scene  to  Gertrude,  and  then 
said,  "We  were  taken  by  surprise,  when  after  a  few  words  full 
of  liveliness  and  fun  from  Father  Milleriot,  another  person 
came  up  to  the  table  in  the  centre,  and  began  talking  to  that 
singular  audience.  Guess  who  it  was?  Clara  gave  such  a 
start  that  it  made  our  neighbours  look  round." 

"  I  suppose  it  was  Monsieur  d'Arberg,"  Gertrude  calmly 
said.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  pronounced  his  name  since 
she  had  done  so  in  her  father's  study  a  year  ago.  "  Did  you 
see  him  only  that  once  2  " 

"  Only  that  once,"  he  answered.  '•  Clara  had  a  long  visit  from 
him   afterwards.     He   never  goes  out   anywhere,   I   believe 


LADY-BIRD.  265 

People  cannot  understand  why  he  does  not  become  a  priest,  for 
he  lives  a  strange  life  for  a  man  of  the  world,  and  seems  to 
have  lost  all  interest  in  politics  and  literature,  or  anything  but 
hard  work  amongst  th?  poorest  people." 

"  Is  he  not  going  to  be  a  priest  ?  "  she  asked,  fastening  on 
that  idea,  but  as  if  afraid  to  grasp  it. 

"  There  docs  not  seem  to  have  ever  been  any  question 
of  it,  Clara  told  me.  I  never  saw  any  one  so  altered.  He 
is  handsomer  than  ever — but  looks  very  ill.  You  are  not 
going  yet,  Mrs.  Redmond,  are  you  ?  Malibran  is  just  about 
to  sing." 

She  sat  down  again,  simply  because  she  could  not  stand. 
Thoughts  and  feelings  were  rushing  too  violently  upon  her. 
With  all  her  might  she  was  shutting  out  of  her  soul  that  de- 
solating torrent.  People  go  thi'ough  a  great  deal  sometimes  ; 
and  in  that  moment  the  singer  and  the  song  brought  before 
her  the  past  in  bitter  contrast  with  the  present.  "  To  the 
dregs,"  she  said  to  herself  "  To  the  dregs,"  and  sat  resolutely 
draining  the  sufferings  of  that  hour. 

When  she  went  home  something  seemed  altered  in  the 
part  she  had  assigned  to  herself  She  was  not  so  calm  or  so 
stern  as  before.  Maurice  was  startled  at  the  expi-ession  of 
her  countenance.  He  felt  an  imperative  desire  to  question 
her,  to  probe  her  feelings  more  directly  than  he  had  ever  yet 
done.  He  felt  as  if  for  a  time  he  would  suffer  less,  if  he  had 
something  definite  to  complain  of  He  longed  to  be  able  to 
reproach  her  or  himself  A  terrible  temptation  beset  him  that 
niglit.  He  had  remained  alone  in  the  sitting-room  after  his 
wife  had  left  it ;  and  he  went  to  his  desk  and  took  out  of  it  a 
sealed  Jetter,  which  he  gazed  on  for  some  time  in  silence,  as  if 
he  would  have  pierced  with  his  eyes  through  the  folded  paper, 
— as  if  the  seal  was  the  barrier  between  him  and  something 
which  he  at  once  feared  and  longed  to  look  into. 

The  letter  was  not  directed  to  him,  "  If  I  were  to  leave  it 
in  her  way,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  and  could  watch  her  while 
she  read  it,  I  should  see  by  her  eyes,  by  her  colour,  by  her  at- 
titude, what  interest  it  excited,  what  emotion  it  awakened. 
But  to  give  it  to  her  without  knowing  its  contents — I  cannot 
do  it.  0  that  this  detested  letter  had  never  reached  me  ! 
One  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  and  my  conscience  would  have 
been  free  from  the  horrid  self-reproach  that  comes  between  me 
and  peace  every  moment  of  the  day,  Nothing  but  this  seal 
to  break,  and  I  should  learn  all.     Has  not  a  husband  the 


26G  LAD'S-BIRD. 

right  to  know  his  wife's  secrets  ?  Yet  in  this  way,  entrusted 
to  nie,  and  by  him  too  who  never  knew  what  it  was  to  suspect 
or  to  betray.  '  I  know  you  to  be  an  honourable  man.'  Why 
did  he  say  that  in  his  accursed  note  ?  I  ought  to  have  des- 
troyed or  returned  this  letter  the  day  of  my  marriage,  it 
haunts  me  as  if  it  was  a  living  thing.  I  think  of  it  the  last 
thing  at  night,  and  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  when  I  walk 
about  the  streets ;  I  see  it  there  in  its  place  in  my  desk,  as  if 
it  was  defying  me  to  read  or  to  destroy  it.  Itoi/I  destroy  it." 
He  started  up  from  his  chair  and  went  towards  the  fire,  and  held 
the  letter  over  it,  but  could  not  xinclose  his  fingers  to  drop  it. 
"  Never  to  know  what  that  man  had  to  say  to  her;  never  to 
ascertain  if  the  phantom  that  pursues  me,  and  stands  between 
her  and  me,  is  a  delusion  or  a  reality  !  What  an  absurd 
weakness,  not  to  break  this  seal !  It  was  to  the  honour  of 
one  who  had  no  claim  upon  her  that  he  trusted — not  to  mine, 
who  am  her  husband,  and  who  ought  to  have  her  love." 

He  put  down  on  the  chimney  the  letter  that  was  causing 
him  such  a  terrible  struggle.  It  was  a  strange  inconsistency, 
perhaps,  that  a  man  who  had  not  fulfilled  a  trust  by  delivering 
it,  when  he  ought,  to  her  to  whom  it  was  directed,  should  now 
60  hesitate  to  make  himself  master  of  its  contents — should 
h'emble  at  this  sin,  when  he  had  committed  a  greater  one. 
His  head  was  buried  in  his  hands,  and  he  was  sunk  in  deep 
thought.  In  an  instant  he  felt,  more  than  perceived,  that 
rfhere  was  some  one  standing  by  his  side,  and  he  turned  as 
pale  as  death  when  he  saw  that  it  was  Gertrude.  Mechani- 
cally he  put  out  his  hand  to  snatch  up  the  letter,  but  she  had 
seen  it,  and  said  in  her  calm  stern  manner,  "  That  letter  is  for 
me — my  name  is  upon  it."  Ilis  hand  trembled;  for  one 
eecond  he  thought  again  of  destroying  it,  but  felt  giddy  and 
did  not  do  so.  She  took  it  from  him,  and  he  did  not  resist : 
ghe  looked  at  it  again,  and  recognised  the  handwriting.  A 
plight  trembling  came  over  her,  and  she  turned  towards,  the 
door. 

"  No,  read  it  here,"  he  abruptly  ejaculated.  She  had  used 
herself  to  obey  him,  and  sat  down  at  the  table.  He  remained 
leaning  at  the  chimney.  There  was  a  profound  silence  in  the 
room.  He  heard  the  sound  of  the  breaking  of  the  seal,  and 
the  unfolding  of  the  paper.  She  read  it  through,  and  he 
watched  her.  He  had  often  watched  her  before,  but  never  as 
then.  The  hectic  spot  rose  on  her  marble  cheek,  and  deepened 
into  intensity,  till  it  grew  into  a  burning  flush  :   the  blue  veins 


LADY-Bllff).  26? 

on  her  forelicad  swelled,  and  swelled,  till  they  seemed  unnat- 
urally distended  ;  her  mouth  quivered,  and  she  began  again  to 
tremble.  It  was  dreadful  to  see  her  thus  motionless,  except 
for  that  trembling ;  it  was  like  the  silence  of  nature  before  a 
storm — the  rustle  of  the  leaves  before  the  crash  of  thunder. 
Then  came  the  cry  of  despair,  the  burst  of  grief,  which  nothing 
could  repress.  Long  held  down,  it  broke  forth  in  that  hour. 
All  was  forgotten  for  an  instant ;  and  with  her  hands  on  her 
temples,  and  torrents  of  tears  streaming  down  her  face,  she 
murmured  Adrien's  name,  and  srroaned  in  spirit. 

The  fiery  element,  which  from  his  Italian  mother  had 
passed  into  the  veins  of  Maurice,  inflamed  his  soul  at  that  in- 
stant, and  he  sprang  from  the  place  where  he  was  standing  with 
a  fierce  impetuosity  that  would  have  frightened  any  but  a 
profoundly  miserable  woman.  It  was  nothing  to  her  at  that 
moment  that  he  looked  as  if  he  could  kill  her,  but  it  was 
dreadful  to  him  that  he  felt  it.  The  reaction  was  so  stronf 
that  he  staggered  and  would  have  fallen,  if  he  had  not  caught 
hold  of  the  handle  of  the  door.  She  saw  his  deadly  paleness, 
and  her  heart  smote  her.  "Maurice!  poor  Maurice!"  she 
said,  and  held  out  both  her  hands  to  him.  He  had  sat  down, 
and  murmured,  "Give  it  me."  She  obeyed,  put  it  into  his 
hands;  and  now  in  her  turn  sorrowfully,  silently,  with  some- 
thing between  compassion  and  reproach,  she  watched  hira  read 
this  letter  that  had  remained  so  long  unread,  and  which, 
earlier  seen,  would  have  changed  the  fate  of  three  persons.  It 
had  been  enclosed  in  one  to  Maurice,  and  had  reached  him 
only  the  very  morning  of  his  marriage,  when  at  the  point  of 
gaining  that  end  he  had  so  recklessly  pursued.  Adrien  had 
simply  r'b(|ucstcd  him  to  take  an  opportunity  of  giving  it  to 
Gertrude,  either  himself  or  through  Mary,  or  in  any  way  that 
would  ensure  her  receiving  it.  lie  had  added,  that  he  could 
trust  him,  knowing  lie  had  to  deal  v/ith  an  lionourable  man, 
and  one  who  knew  him  (Adrien)  well  enough  to  rely  on  the 
integrity  of  his  motives  in  desiring  such  secrecy. 

If  Maurice  had  known  that  an  engagement  had  previously 
existed  between  Adrien  and  Gertrude,  he  would  not  in  all 
probability  have  kept  back  that  letter,  even  at  that  moment 
of  distraction ;  but  he  supposed  it  contained  his  first  avowal 
of  afi"ection,  and  a  proposal  of  marriage,  which  his  misgivings 
whispered  to  him  miglit  endanger  her  ))eace  if  she  married 
him,  or  overthrow  the  whole  fabric  of  his  happiness,  if  it  in- 
duced  her  to  change  her  mind.     She  would  then  appeal  to  hia 


268  lADY-BIRD. 

gener'/sity ;  and  no  alternative  would  remain  to  him,  but  the 
almost  insupportable  misery  of  losing  her.  To  steel  his  con- 
science against  the  voice  of  duty,  to  drown  the  sense  of  right 
by  specious  and  rapid  reasonings,  to  say  to  himself  that  what- 
ever that  letter  contained  it  came  too  late  to  give  it  to  her, 
that  it  would  not  even  be  fair  to  Adrien,  who  was  ignorant  of 
the  strange  circumstances  under  which  it  would  be  received, 
and  of  the  position  in  which  she  stood  with  regard  to  himself 
— was  the  work  of  a  moment.  This  miserable  sophistry  was 
like  laudanum  taken  in  raging  pain,  which  stills  without  drown- 
ing the  sense  of  suffering  ;  and  the  fatal  letter  was  thrust  into 
his  breast,  and  lay  next  his  heart  while  he  pronounced  the  mar- 
riage vow.  Great  was  his  sin,  but  great  also  was  the  penalty 
that  followed  it ;  for  this  was  the  letter  he  had  seen  her  read, 
and  which  she  now  placed  in  his  hands  : — 

"  Dearest  Gertrude.  We  were  to  have  met  again — we  had 
reckoned  upon  it,  in  that  hour  of  sorrow  and  of  joy,  when  we 
parted  for  a  while  with  hope  in  our  hearts,  and  a  strong  trust 
in  each  other.  You  know,  or  alas  !  you  may  not  know,  that  I 
have  been  refused  by  your  father.  I  was  denied  that  short 
interview  for  which  I  pleaded  with  an  earnestness  that  could 
have  scarcely  been  withstood,  if  arguments  had  not  been  used 
which  struck  me  dumb  in  that  moment  of  suffering  and  of  agi- 
tation. I  was  charged  not  to  disturb  your  mother's  peace,  and 
thrust  myself  into  your  presence  while  you  were  watching  her 
dying  bed.  I  prayed  to  be  allowed  to  write  to  you,  even  though 
my  letter  should  be  read  by  your  father,  and  offered  to  pledge 
myself  not  to  write  again,  if  thus  far  lie  would  condescend  to 
my  prayer.  He  refused  even  this ;  he  told  me  that  you  were 
promised  in  marriage  to  another  person,  and  that  all  attempts 
to  correspond  with  you  would  be  useless,  as  he  would  take 
measures  to  prevent  any  letter  reaching  you,  and  literally  drove 
me  from  his  house.  Gertrude,  I  kncAV  you  would  suffer,  but  I 
knew  also  you  would  trust  me — that  no  false  appearances,  no 
calumnies,  no  assertions  of  friends  or  of  enemies,  if  we  have 
any,  would  make  you  doubt  me,  and  this  alone  enabled  me  to 
be  calm  at  first. 

"  I  have  written  to  Father  Lifford,  and  implored  him  to 
convey  to  you  the  assurance,  not  of  anything  that  could  offend 
your  father,  but  only  of  what  it  might  concern  your  peace  to 
know — that  one  whom  you  had  trusted  had  not  deceived  you ; 
but  I  feel  compelled,  by  a  vague  and  increasing  anxiety,  to 
seek  some  more  direct  way  of  conveying  to  you  an  assurance. 


LADY-I3I11D.  269 

•without  wliich  I  feci  it  myself  every  day  more  difficult  to  bear 
without  flinching  the  burthen  of  the  hour. 

"  I  do  not  ask  anything  of  you,  Gertrude.  You  are  free: 
no  promise,  no  duty  binds  you.  But,  0  remember  not  to  bo 
weak  ;  whatever  is  right,  that  do.  God  forbid  I  should  ever 
stand  between  you  and  your  fatlier  ;  but  it  cannot  be  right  to 
love  one  man  and  to  marry  another :  and  you  have  loved  me, 
you  do  love  mc  ;  deep  in  my  heart's  core  I  feel  it,  and  never, 
in  the  days  we  were  together,  never,  during  the  brief  sunshine 
of  our  love,  have  I  felt  for  you  what  I  do  now.  This  is  all  I 
can — all  I  will  say.  I  am  bound  to  you  by  a  tic  as  strf>ng  as 
if  you  were  already  my  wife  ;  not  the  less  strong  becau.«c  I 
hold  you  to  be  free,  and  have  no  right  to  reproach  you  if  you 
obey  your  father. 

"  I  am  going  about  the  work  of  life  again.  The  dangerous 
illness  of  one  of  my  oldest  and  dearest  friends,  at  the  seminary 
of  Orleans,  calls  me  to  his  side,  and  afterwards  matters  of 
business,  to  my  brother,  in  Brittany ;  but  there,  and  here,  and 
everywhere,  one  only  effort,  and  one  unly  prayer  shall  be  mine 
— to  become  worthier  of  possessing  you  one  day,  or  to  prepare 
myself  to  resign  you  ;  and,  in  so  doing,  every  hope  of  earthly 
happiness,  if  such  should  be  God's  will. 

"  I  shall  not  write  again,  my  beloved  Gertrude,  but  when  I 
once  know  that  you  have  received  this  letter  I  shall  have  no 
fears  for  you  or  for  myself 

"  Your  most  affectionate 

"  Adrien." 

The  letter  dropped  from  Maurice's  hands,  and  he  hid  his 
face  with  them.  She  knelt  by  the  side  of  his  chair;  she  felt 
very  sorry  for  him,  more  than  she  had  ever  done  before. 
'••  Forgive  me,"  she  said,  gently,  "  forgive  me,  that  I  married 
you."  He  turned  suddenly  round,  and  his  eyes  flashed  fire 
through  their  tears.  "  Forgive  you,  while  you  love  that  man  ! 
No,  by  all  I  have  suffered,  no  !  I  do  not  forgive  you.  Burn 
that  letter  before  me,  I  cannot  touch  it  again. — Burn  it  this 
instant."  She  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  and  looked  so  pale,  so 
unspeakably  wretched,  as  she  dropped  it  into  the  fire,  and 
watched  the  flames  consuming  it,  that  a  sudden  reaction  oc- 
curred in  his  feelings;  he  threw  himself  at  her  feet,  and  with 
startling  vehemence  exclaimed. 

"  I  received  that  letter,  Gertrude  on  the  morning  of  our 
marriage,  and  /  wn..s  trusted  with  it.      I  might  have  given  it  to 


270  LADV-BIRD. 

you  before  you  bad  sealed  your  misery.     0,  can  you  not  Late 

and  despise  me  ?  " 

"  You  had  it ! "  she  said.  "  That  letter  was  in  your 
hands !  It  would  have  saved  me,  and  you  did  not  give  it  me  ! 
Did  you  do  this,  Maurice?  0  then  you  deserve  the  fate  you 
have  found.  God  help  us  both ;  we  are  doomed  to  a  life  of 
sorrow." 

"  You  never  told  me  you  had  loved  that  man ;  you  never 
told  me  that  you  had  been  engaged  to  him." 

"  You  saw  my  heart  was  breaking.  Did  you  ever  ask  me 
if  I  loved  you  1  " 

"  0,  cannot  you  love  me  ?  At  the  altar  you  swore  to  love 
me.     Have  you  no  pity,  no  conscience?  " 

'•  "What  do  you  care  for  my  pity?     What  have  you  to  do 
with  my  conscience?     I  am  your  wife  ;  you  would  have  it  so. 
Adrien  trusted  you.     0  fool  that  he  was"  to  trust  you  or  me  !  " 
The   deep  flush  of  resentment  overcame,  at  that  instant, 
the  ashy  paleness  in   Maurice's  cheek,  and  he  left  the  room 
without  uttering  another  word.     For  the  second  time   in  her 
life  it  seemed  to  Gertrude  as  if  the  fair  edifice  of  virtue,  which 
she  had  been  so  sternly  and  sedulously  raising,  had  crumbled 
to  the  ground.      Once  again  it  had  been   built  on  the  sand  ; 
though  it  had  looked  firmer  than  the  first,  it  had  given  way 
under  this  new  blast  of  agitating  grief.     She  was  deeply  dis- 
turbed in  spirit  by  this  scene  with  her  husband.      She  felt  as  if 
she  could  not  now  forgive  him.  or  resume  that  life  of  practical 
devotion  to  him  which  had  been  her  support  during  the  last  jear. 
When   Maurice  returned   to   his   home,  a  look   of   settled 
gloom  had  fixed  itself  on  his  face.     There  was  something  reck- 
less and  wild  in  his  manner.     He  no  longer  asked  her  to  walk 
with  him.  or  to  go  into  society.      He  never  read,  and  talked  to 
her  but  little.      She  was  alone  for  hours ;   and  now  the  barrier 
which  she  had  called  virtue,  but  which  was  partly  made  up  of 
pride  and  resentment,  was  too  feeble  to  keep  back,  at  all  times, 
the  torrent  of  regrets,  of  unmastered  passion,  and  intense  feel- 
ings which  were  overflowing  her  soul  like  a  desolating  flood. 
She  ceased  to  deny  herself  the   fatal  indulgence   of  her   old 
habits  of  dreaming,  and  no   longer  banished   Adrien's  image 
from  her  mind.      It  pursued  her  everywhere.      To  confession 
she  dared  not  go,  for  she  would  not  renounce  the  sin  of  that 
thought ;   to  mass  she  still  went,  but  it  hardened  her  heart,  for 
she    would   not    have    it    softened,  but    only  dared    not    stay 
away.     She  had  a  wild  strange  feeling  of  resentment,  that  not 


LADY-BIRD,  2Yi 

even  in  prayer  could  she  meet  Adrien  in  spirit ;  she  was  with- 
out that  region  where  his  soul  doubtless  found  peace  ;  and  yet 
fihe  would  not  break  the  chain  with  which  passion  bound  hers. 
Once  more  she  read  his  works,  secretly  as  an  act  of  guilt  is 
performed  ;  it  was  his  voice  once  more  in  her  ears ;  it  was  his 
mind  once  again  speaking  to  hers ;  and  her  cheek  burned,  and 
her  heart  throbbed,  but  not  with  the  bright  enthusiasm  of 
former  days — not  with  the  spirit  which  then  roused  her  to  the 
knowledge  and  to  the  love  of  virtue.  The  more  fervid  was 
his  eloquence,  the  more  noble  his  sentiments,  the  more  she 
writhed  with  the  anguish  of  their  irrevocable  separation.  His 
earnest  words  brought  back  to  her  memory  the  voice  she 
was  never  to  hear  again ;  and  when  he  spoke  of  God,  of 
Heaven,  and  of  goodness,  it  seemed  but  the  echoes  of  a  music 
which  once  had  been  familiar,  but  to  which  her  blighted  but 
unsubdued  heart  no  longer  responded. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  her  now  that  Maurice  stayed  so 
much  away  from  home,  that  he  no  longer  seemed  to  require 
her  society ;  and  she  did  not  observe  how  haggard  was  the 
expression  of  his  face  at  times,  or  how  moody  were  his  long 
fits  of  abstraction  at  others.  He  was  enduring  at  once  the 
double  pangs  of  jealousy  and  remorse.  There  were  moments 
when  anger  and  resentment  prevailed  ;  but  others  again,  when 
he  pitied  Gertrude,  and  would  have  intensely  longed  to  re- 
place her  in  peace  and  in  freedom,  unscathed  by  the  misery 
lie  had  so  recklessly  drawn  her  into.  Trials  of  every  kind 
were  staring  him  in  the  face  ;  poverty  was  becoming  every  day 
more  imminent,  and  its  prospects  more  galling.  His  want  of 
power  to  strive  with  his  own  sufferings  deprived  him  gradu- 
ally of  all  the  resources  from  whence  he  had  drawn  an  income. 
They  were  soon  reduced  to  live  on  the  small  amount  of  fortune 
which  Father  Lifford  had  bequeathed  to  Gertrude.  It  was  a 
perpetual  torment  to  him  thus  to  owe  his  support  to  her,  and 
he  made  imprudent  and  desperate  efforts  to  ameliorate  the 
state  of  his  affairs. 

Mary  had  been  right.  He  could  not  steer  alone  his  bark 
through  a  rough  sea  ;  the  burthen  on  his  heart  and  that  on 
his  conscience  were  too  much  for  his  strength.  Gertrude's 
ccldness,  which  had  now  deepened  into  unkindness,  paralysed 
every  nerve,  and  cheeked  every  effort.  Before  that  terrible 
day  when  both  had  read  Adrien's  letter  he  had  had  the  stimu- 
lus of  hope  and  of  tear  ;  now  he  neither  feared  nor  hoped,  and 
his  mental  energies  seemed  to  die  away  within  him.     Ho  used 


2*72  LADY-BIRD. 

to  absent  himself  as  much  as  possible  ;  and  unable  to  pursue 
his  former  occupations,  all  his  anxiety  was  to  spend  nothing 
upon  himself  that  he  could  possibly  avoid,  and  to  devise 
schemes  for  improving  his  worldly  position.  Their  solitary 
meals  Avere  generally  silent.  She  was  the  least  depressed  of 
the  two ;  but  there  was  a  gloomy  abyss  between  them  and  an 
image  ever  present  before  the  mental  sight  of  both.  Once  or 
twice  during  that  time  old  friends  sought  them  out — he  got 
out  of  the  way  to  avoid  them.  He  shrank  from  the  eyes  of 
others  with  a  morbid  sensitiveness.  He  felt  as  if  Gertrude 
hated  him,  and  to  be  hated  by  one  whom  he  passionately  loved, 
seemed  to  stamp  upon  him  a  brand  which  made  everything 
odious  to  him. 

And  he  never  had  loved  her  more  than  now.  Sometimes 
when  he  came  in  late  in  the  evening  after  wandering  through 
the  streets  for  hours  he  would  find  her  asleep  in  her  chair, 
worn  out  with  a  long  day's  toil  (for  work  she  would  with  a 
feverish  assiduity) ;  and  he  would  gaze  at  her  with  a  tender- 
ness which  matured  for  a  while  both  jealousy  and  resentment ; 
and  by  degrees  the  bitter  trial  he  was  going  through  was  break- 
ing up  the  soil  where  once  good  seed  had  been  sown.  It  was 
as  if  scales  had  fallen  from  his  eyes,  as  if  he  had  perceived 
for  the  first  time,  almost,  the  extent  of  his  guilt, — the  reck- 
less selfishness  of  his  course, — the  miserable  amount  of  his 
offences  in  God's  sight, — the  dreadful  injury  he  had  inflicted 
on  the  woman  he  so  passionately  loved,  and  the  man  whom  his 
lower  nature  hated,  while  his  better  self  recalled  his  virtues 
and  the  long  arrears  of  gratitude  he  owed  him.  Things  that 
Mary  used  to  say  to  him,  now  often  came  to  his  mind  again. 
He  began  to  look  upon  the  future  in  a  difi'erent  way  from  here- 
tofore ;  to  feel  that  he  might  never  be,  nor  deserved  ever  to 
be  happy  again.  At  moments  he  struggled  against  that  con- 
viction— he  felt  to  want  '■'■  du  honheur  a  tout  prix?''  He  tried 
to  persuade  himself  that  his  punishment  was  greater  than  his 
sin  ;  but  once  awakened,  the  conscience  of  a  man  who  is  not 
wholly  perverted  is  too  strong  for  him,  and  its  logic  too  pow- 
erful. Every  succeeding  day  he  reproached  himself  more 
and  others  less  ;  and  saw  in  a  clearer  light  his  treachery  to 
Mary,  his  ingratitude  to  Adrien,  and  his  cruelty  to  Gertrude. 
A  deep  discouragement  took  possession  of  him,  and  his  useless 
passionate  efforts  to  redeem  the  past,  to  procure  her  happiness 
of  some  sort,  to  change  something  in  a  fate  which  appeared 
to  him  more  and  more  hopeless,  only  enhanced  the  misery  of 
his  life. 


LADT-DIRD.  273 

He  vainly  tried  to  compose  as  he  used  to  do.  His  genius 
seemed  to  have  forsaken  him.  Once  only  a  faint  gleam  of  it 
returned.  He  was  walking  one  day  in  a  meadow  some  way 
out  of  London,  and  as  he  was  strolling  listlessly  along  he  saw 
a  troop  of  children  pursuing  with  eager  delight  a  richly-painted 
butterfly.  Still  it  eluded  their  grasp,  and  flew  from  flower  to 
flower,  its  purple  and  gold  wings  shining  in  the  sunliglit;  but 
one  eager  hand  caught  it  at  last,  and  the  curious  children 
pressed  around  the  fortunate  possessor.  He  opened  his  hand, 
and  there  lay  the  crushed  insect,  with  the  bright  colours  rub- 
bed off  its  light  wings,  with  its  life  nearly  extinct,  and  its  form 
almost  motionless.  Maurice  turned  away,  and  he  murmured 
as  he  went,  "  0  my  Lady-Bird — my  Lady-Bird — thus  have  I 
dealt  with  thee  !  "  When  he  went  home  that  evening  he  told 
her  the  story  ;  but  without  any  comment.  She  looked  up  from 
her  work  and  said,  "  Poor  butterfly."  He  wrote  a  song  that 
night,  and  called  it  "  The  Child  and  the  Butterfly."  It  was 
the  only  good  thing  he  had  composed  since  his  marriage.  If 
he  had  been  always  able  like  that  day  to  turn  his  sufferings 
into  music,  he  might  have  marched  rapidly  towards  fame,  for 
he  had  an  ample  store  to  draw  from. 

There  came  a  day  when  Gertrude  was  struck  with  the  per- 
turbed expression  of  his  countenance, — and  it  would  have  been 
strange  if  she  had  not,  for  in  addition  to  the  usual  care-worn 
look  which  his  features  had  lately  worn,  there  was  something 
quite  new  in  their  aspect.  He  was  suffering  the  keenest  anx- 
iety regarding  money  matters.  The  mania  for  speculation  was 
then  at  its  height ;  and  tempted  by  the  ardent  desire  to  im- 
prove, not  so  much  his  own  as  Gertrude's  destiny,  he  had  em- 
barked in  an  undertaking  which  promised  fairly,  and  the  risks 
of  which  he  had  not  suflicicntly  considered.  The  result  was 
unfortunate,  and  his  liabilities  surpassed  by  far  his  slender 
means  of  meeting  them.  He  had  only  one  intimate  friend, 
the  young  painter.  Dee,  who  in  former  years  had  introduced 
him  to  Adrien  d'Arberg.  He  was  one  of  the  few  persons  who 
was  often  with  him  and  with  Gertrude,  for  whom  he  had  a 
great  admiration ;  he  admired  her  beauty,  but  still  more  her 
conduct.  He  saw  they  were  not  happy,  and  wondered  why 
they  were  not  so ;  but  her  patience,  and  her  indefatigable  in- 
dustry astonished  and  charmed  him.  One  day,  the  same  on 
which  Gertrude  had  been  struck  by  the  extreme  misery  that 
she  saw  in  his  face,  Maurice  went  to  William  Dee,  and  dis- 
closed to  hixn  the  desperate  position  in  which  he  found  hiio 

18 


9*74  LADY-BIRD. 

solf  He  knew  the  young  painter  could  not  assist  him,  and 
in  the  midst  of  his  distress  there  was  a  calmness  that  per- 
plexed his  friend.  He  offered  to  persuade  others  to  go  secu- 
rity for  him, — he  endeavoured  to  find  some  remedy  for  the 
evil,  but  Maurice  stopped  him,  and  said, 

"  I  have  no  means  of  retrieving  myself  ;  I  have  been  im- 
prudent, and  must  bear  the  penalty.  My  folly  has  been  im- 
mense ;  I  have  risked  more  than  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  pay. 
If  I  had  not  been  deceived  my  conduct  would  have  been  dis- 
honourable. But  I  had  no  notion  that  I  was  committed  to 
such  an  extent.  There  is  one  thing  I  am  deeply  thankful 
for ;  Gertrude  has  a  small  income  settled  on  herself,  which 
will  keep  her  from  absolute  destitution.  I  am  liable  to  be 
any  day  arrested,  and  I  care  not  now  how  soon  it  happens. 
Anything  is  better  than  the  state  of  miserable  suspense  in 
which  I  live :  I  would  not  have  troubled  you  about  this,  dear 
William,  but  for  one  reason, — you  will,  I  know,  be  kind  to 
her  when  the  blow  falls  on  me.  She  will  want  advice,  per- 
haps  " 

"  And  comfort,"  the  other  ejaculated,  with  glistening 
eyes. 

"  None,  that  you  or  any  one  in  this  wide  world  can  ever 
give  her,"  Maurice  exclaimed,  as  if  suddenly  unable  to  con- 
trol his  feelings. 

He  hastily  moved  to  a  different  part  of  the  room,  and 
struggled  with  himself  for  a  moment ;  then  wringing  his 
friend's  hand,  he  left  him. 

A  few  days  after  this  Gertrude  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  at 
the  usual  dinner  hour,  wondering  that  Maurice  did  not  come 
home.  The  hours  went  by.  and  he  did  not  return.  All  sorts 
of  thoughts  came  into  her  mind,  of  a  most  contradictory  na- 
ture ;  a  nervousness,  an  anxiety  to  see  him  return — not  very 
consistent,  perhaps,  with  her  habitual  indiff"erence ;  and  then 
a  vague  idea  that  perhaps  he  might  never  return  passed 
through  her  mind.  The  night  wore  on,  and  he  did  not  come ; 
she  did  not  go  to  bed,  nor  close  her  eyes  ;  but  sat  on  by  the 
fire,  gazing  into  herself  as  it  were,  and  pondering  over  her 
strange  feelings.  She  longed  to  hear  his  footstep  on  the 
stairs,  but  it  was  more  because  her  anxiety  was  irksome  than 
because  her  heart  was  softened  towards  him.  If  he  should 
desert  her  entirely  she  would  not  care,  she  said  to  herself, 
and  then  she  thought  of  her  utter  loneliness,  and  of  his  melan- 
choly impassioned  eyes,  and  wondered  if  it  would  make  her 
sad  never  to  see  them  again. 


LADY-BIRD. 


2Ti 


The  daylight  came,  and  her  restlessness  increased.  To- 
wards nine  o'clock  William  Dec  arrived,  and  when  they  told 
her  he  wished  to  speak  to  her,  she  had  a  faint  sensation  at  her 
heart.  "  Something  has  happened,"  that  vague  sentence 
which  embodies  so  miich  vague  apprehension  !  He  broke  to 
her,  with  more  caution  than  was  necessary,  the  fact  tliat  Mau- 
rice had  been  arrested  ;  for  the  instant  she  heard  the  nature 
of  the  event  which  had  detained  him,  she  was  perfectly  calm 
and  very  cold.  He  was  provoked  at  her  apparent  insensi- 
bility, and  owned  his  fears  that  Maurice  was  plunged  into  in- 
extricable difl&culties,  but  that  he  bore  them  with  resignation, 
supported  by  the  knowledge  that  she  was  not  reduced  to  po- 
verty by  his  imprudence  ;  that  he  was  anxious  to  know  if  she 

would  come   and  see   him   in prison  ;  and    then    that   he 

hoped  that  she  would  send  for  his  mother  and  Mary,  and  try 
to  arrange  living  somewhere  with  them  for  a  while.  He  sup- 
posed she  would  not  like  to  go  to  Stonehouseleigh. 

•'  0  no,"  she  said  with  a  shudder,  "  there  I  never  can  go. 
But  what  does  Maurice  mean  by  these  plans?  To  what  ex- 
tent is  he  involved — what  are  his  liabilities?  " 

"  It  would  be  useless  to  explain  them  to  you,  Mrs.  Red- 
mond.    They  are  greater  than  he  can  meet." 

"  But  not  than  /can  meet." 

"  That  he  would  not  hear  of.  His  only  comfort  is,  that 
jour  small  fortune  is  safe  from  his  creditors." 

"  Not  safe  from  them  for  one  hour  longer  than  I  can  help. 
Mr.  Dee,  if  you  will  not  assist  me  about  this,  I  will  instantly 
apply  to  some  one  who  will  do  for  money  what  you  might  out 
of  friendship." 

"I  must  implore  you  for  Maurice's  sake  not  to  think  of 
this," — (her  lip  curled) — "  it  would  make  him  miserable." 

"  It  is  not  a  matter  of  feeling,"  she  said  sternly.  "  More 
or  less  misery  to  either  of  us  signifies  but  little.  His  debts 
must  be  paid  immediately.  He  must  be  free  this  very  night. 
[  would  rather  not  go  to  see  him  where  he  is,  but  I  will  if 
you  think  he  wishes  it,  even  though  he  should  return  here  to- 
night." 

"  But,  Mrs.  Redmond,  you  will  not  do  this  without  hia 
consent  ?  " 

"  I  will,  and  in  a  way  that  may  ruin  me  and  not  serve 
him,  if  you  do  not  help  me.  Come  with  me  instantly  to  a 
lawyer's.  I  have  a  ivill^  Mr.  Dee,  that  has  often  asserted  it- 
self where  it  ought  to  have  given  way.     It  will  not  give  way 


276  LADY-BIKD. 

now.     Be  sure  of  it.     Maurice  has  done  nothing  dishonour- 
able, has  he  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least — he  has  been  imprudent,  but  more  sin 
ned  against  than  sinning." 

"  Ay.  he  has  indeed,"  she  exclaimed  ;  and,  weak  with  the 
long  sleepless  night  and  the  agitation  she  had  undergone,  she 
burst  into  tears,  but  in  an  instant  conquered  her  emotion. 

She  acted  all  that  day  with  an  intelligence  and  an  energy 
that  astonished  her  companion.  In  spite  of  his  remonstrances, 
•which  grew  more  feeble  as  he  witnessed  her  firm  resolve,  her 
perfect  consciousness  of  the  sacrifices  she  was  making,  with  at 
the  same  time  her  calm  indiiference  about  them,  she  achieved 
all  the  necessary  arrangements ;  and  by  parting  with  all  but 
one  thousand  pounds  of  Father  Liflford's  legacy,  she  met  all 
Maurice's  difiieultios,  and  placed  him  again  in  an  honourable 
position  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  His  friend  went  to  com- 
municate to  him  what  had  been  done,  and  was  quite  alarmed 
at  his  grief  and  indignation  when  he  heard  of  it.  William 
Dee  was  good-hearted  and  very  simple-minded.  He  did  not 
set  much  value  upon  money.  It  came  into  his  hands  and  went 
out  of  them  in  a  way  that  did  not  make  him  rate  as  highly  as 
many  other  people  would  have  done  Grertrude's  sacrifice  of 
her  fortune,  and  not  acquainted  with  the  secret  of  his  friend's 
heart  and  destiny,  it  seemed  to  him  natural  enough  that  hi.^ 
young  wife,  who  had  already  given  up  so  much  for  him,  should 
act  in  this  manner.  He  was  not  prepared  to  witness  the  burst 
of  bitter  sorrow  mixed  with  anger  against  him,  with  which 
Maurice  received  the  intelligence,  and  he  kept  urging  him  to 
go  home,  as  if  there  ho  was  likely  to  find  consolation  and 
repose. 

When  Maurice  did  return,  Gertrude  received  him  with 
more  of  her  old  manner  than  she  had  ever  shown  since  their 
marriage.  She  smiled  a  smile  he  had  not  seen  for  many  a 
long  day.  It  went  through  his  heart  like  a  dagger.  She 
naade  a  playful  remark  upon  his  absence.     His  lip  quivered  : 

"  I  cannot  thank  you,  Gertrude,  for  what  you  have  done 
t  has  been  no  kindness  to  me." 

"  No,  and  I  did  not  mean  it  as  such,"  she  answered.  "  ] 
have  pleased  myself,  and  I  like  our  present  prospects  bettei 
than  I  have  done  anything  for  a  long  time." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  he  said. 

"  I  mean  that  of  course  we  must  emigrate  now.  J'ai  brflle 
mes  vaisseaus.     The  world  is  a  wide  one,  and  a  new  one  will 


I 


LADY-BIRD.  277 

suit  you  and  mc,  Maurice.  Let  us  go, — let  us  leave  every- 
thing behind,  and  see  if  the  Yankees  will  not  give  you  work 
in  your  profession  ;  and  if  not,  we  will  to  the  backwoods,  and 
lead  a  savage  life.  I  yearn  for  the  forests  and  the  falls  of 
the  New  World.  What  do  you  say  to  a  log  cabin?  Shall 
we  not  breatlie  there  more  freely  tluan  here  ?  " 

His  heart  beat  as  she  spoke,  and  he  tried  to  catch  her  eyes 
to  read  their  expression,  but  they  were  fixed  on  the  fire,  which 
she  was  stirring  while  she  spoke. 

"  Thank  God,"  he  ejaculated,  "  that  you  have  a  wish.  I 
can  say  no  more." 

"  Say  nothing,  and  see  to  morrow  about  a  passage,"  she 
answered. 

He  thought  of  Mary  and  her  mother,  but  did  not  speak  of 
them.  The  next  day,  and  the  next,  Gertrude  was  kinder  to 
him  than  usual,  and  she  talked  with  pleasure  oi  the  plan  of 
emigrating.  But  when  it  was  really  settled,  she  could  hardly 
speak  of  it  in  the  same  tone.  The  past  rose  again  before  her. 
This  was  indeed  cutting  the  cable,  and  going  adrift.  Never 
to  hear  again  of  Adrien, — never,  even  by  chance  in  the  course 
of  long  years,  once  to  see  his  face  ;  for  she  had  thought  of  that 
chance,  till  it  had  grown  into  an  expectation,  and  her  heart 
sank  within  her  at  the  very  thought  of  new  scenes  which  she 
had  for  an  instant  imagined  would  relieve  the  restless  pain  of 
an  incessant  looking  back  without  peace,  and  forward  without 
bepe.  Her  fits  of  abstraction  were  longer  and  deeper  than 
ever,  till  the  woi'k  of  preparation  began.  Then  she  worked 
as  if  a  slave-driver  had  been  near  her.  He  sold  the  copyright 
of  his  opera  for  a  trifling  sum,  and  bought  a  travelling  case 
for  her.  He  put  it  in  her  way,  but  did  not  give  it  her  as  a 
present.     He  wanted  no  thanks — not  even  a  smile. 

He  went  into  the  country  to  take  leave  of  Mary  and  Mrs. 
Redmond.  Once  more  he  sat  in  the  little  garden  under  the 
thorn-tree,  and  looked  on  the  familiar  scenes  amidst  which 
his  childhood  had  passed,  and  he  had  a  great  deal  of  conver- 
sation with  Mary.  He  confided  to  her  the  story  of  his  sin, 
his  sorrow,  and  his  remorse.  They  strolled  together  to  the 
bridge  over  the  Leigh,  and  sat  under  the  shade  of  the  dark 
alders ,  they  visited  the  graves  of  Mrs.  Lifford  and  of  the  old 
priest  they  had  loved,  and  the  church  where  Maurice  used  to 
play  the  organ.  He  spent  an  hour  with  Mr.  Erving  at  Stone- 
houseleigh,  and  Mary  waited  for  him,  kneeling  before  the 
altar,  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  and  walked  with  him 


278  LADY-BIRD. 

afterwards  to  the  station.  Up  and  down  the  platform  they 
paced  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  the  train  came  in  sight, 
and  they  stood  still.  *•'  Now,  good-bye,  Mary ;  I  will  never 
forget  what  you  have  done  for  me  to-day.  The  way  may  yet 
be  long  and  difficult,  but  the  crushing  weight  is  removed." 
She  could  not  speak,  but  wrung  his  hand,  and  he  bent  down 
to  kiss  her.  The  train  was  soon  out  of  sight.  She  stood 
where  he  had  left  her  till  it  disappeared,  and  then  walked 
home ;  and  her  mother  thought  her  very  pale,  but  there  was 
a  deep  thankfulness  in  her  heart,  a  gratitude  in  the  midst 
of  her  grief,  which  gave  a  heavenly  expression  to  her  face. 

Maurice  had  gathered  a  nosegay  of  flowers  in  the  cottage 
garden.  When  he  arrived  in  London  he  laid  them  in  a  corner 
of  the  room  without  speaking.  Gertrude  saw  them  when  she 
came  in,  and  began  to  arrange  and  tie  them  up.  Everything 
in  their  room  was  packed  up.  There  was  nothing  else  to  do 
that  evening.  She  seemed  to  like  those  flowers, — she  gazed 
on  each  of  them  and  smelt  at  them  repeatedly,  but  they  did 
not  trust  themselves  to  speak  of  the  visit  he  had  made.  It 
was  their  last  evening  in  England.  William  Dee  called  upon 
them,  and  they  all  tried  to  talk  cheerfully.  The  next  day 
they  embarked. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


"  D6ia  ma  barque  fnfiitive 
S'liloiRiie  a  regret  de  la  rive. 
J'affroiitc  <le  nouvcaux  ortiges; 
Sans  ilonte  a  de  nouveaux  nauft'ages 
Mon  frt'le  esquif  est  devou6; 
Et  pourtarit  ix  la  fleur  de  I'age 
Sur  quels  ecueils,  sur  quel  rivage, 
Deja  n'ai-je  pas  ccbouo  ?  " 

Lamartinb. 

"Oh  vista  inaspettala!  oh  vista 
Cara  non  men  che  dolorosa  1 " 

Alfieki. 


One  of  those  vast  receptacles  of  human  beings,  one  of  those 
floating  worlds,  those  temporary  homes,  which  carry  away  from 
our  old  woi'n  out  time-honoured  country — our  old  England— 
which  we  all  love  with  a  love  that  some  of  us  can  hardly  un 
dcrstand,  but  which  asserts  itself  in  ways  at  tiuies,  and   in 


LADY-BIRD.  279 

hearts  where  it  would  be  least  expected,  compelling  them  to 
exclaim,  "  England,  dear  England  !  "  something  in  the  same 
spirit  which  made  James  II  cry  out,  when  from  the  coast  he 
saw  his  French  allies  dispersed  by  the  British  fleet,  "  Ah,  my 
brave  English  !  " — the  patriot's,  not  the  politician's  cry.  One 
of  those  great  refuge-houses  of  the  poor  and  of  the  lionieless, 
— one  of  those  ocean  caravans  that  bear  away  so  many  youth- 
ful energies,  and  so  much  life,  and  spirit,  and  hope,  and  sor- 
row from  our  shores  to  those  of  the  New  World,  was  lying  at 
anchor  at  Blackwall.  The  part  of  the  vessel  allotted  to  the 
steerage  passengers  had  been  gradually  filling  with  persons, 
who  seemed  almost  more  numerous  than  the  huge  ship  could 
contain  :  but  still  they  came,  and  found  tlieir  places,  and 
looked  about  them  with  excitement  or  with  listlessness,  with 
pleasure  or  with  pain,  with  hope  or  with  fear,  according  to 
their  ages,  their  characters,  or  their  prospects.  Some  were 
leaving  their  hearts'  treasures  behind  them  :  some  were  going 
to  find  them  again  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  ;  some 
few,  perhaps,  had  laid  up  theirs  in  Heaven,  and  ceased  to  care 
for  anything  but  the  interests  of  the  Kingdom  which  is  not 
of  this  world  ;  to  others,  again,  the  past  was  a  dream,  and  the 
future  a  blank.  Some  came  well  provided  with  comforts  for 
the  passage  ;  others  had  nothing  but  the  scanty  outfit  of  an 
emigrant.  Some  wept  because  one  they  loved  had  hung  about 
their  neck,  and  had  given  them  a  last  kiss  that  day  ;  others 
wept  because  no  hand  had  pressed  theirs,  and  no  kind  voice 
had  said  "farewell,"  or  "God  bless  you." 

What  an  epitome  of  life,  with  its  various  griefs,  its  grada- 
tions of  outward  prosperity,  its  inward  and  unsuspected 
trials !  One  poor  Irish  woman  was  crying  because  six  littlo 
children  were  crowding  around  her. 

"  And  what  will  I  do  with  them,  the  craturs  ?  "  she  ejacu- 
lated, as  they  began  to  shiver  and  complain. 

"And  what  will  I  do  without  my  baby?"  murmured  an 
other  younger  woman,  who  had  buried  her  only  child  the  day 
before.  ''  Nobody  shall  comfort  me  now.  and  it's  myself  will 
die  of  grief"  But  one  there  was  who  did  comfort  her,  and 
she  died  not  of  grief;  for  He  put  it  into  her  heart  to  nurse 
the  baby  of  the  woman  who  had  too  many  little  ones  to  care 
for,  and  she  learnt  during  that  voyage  that  it  was  "more 
blessed  to  give  than  to  receive." 

It  was  a  strange  subject  for  study  and  for  thought — that 
crowded  deck.     The  thrifty,  neat,  and  well-dressed  group,-- 


280  LADY-BIRD, 

tlie  squalid,  dirty,  poverty-stricken  families, — side  by  side  ;  the 
vicious  degraded  countenances  of  some  poor  -wretches,  who 
were  escaping  perhaps  from  detection  and  punishment ;  the 
daring  impudence  of  one,  the  stolid  stupidity  of  another ;  the 
mischievous  quickness  of  a  third ;  the  contrast  between  the 
few  English  and  the  numerous  Irish  passengers, — none 
amongst  the  first  so  degraded  in  men's  eyes ;  but  not  any  of 
them  perhaps  so  near  to  Heaven  as  some  of  the  last. — famine- 
stricken  creatures  who  had  patiently  borne  an  incredible 
amount  of  suffering,  and  had  passed  spotless  through  the  or- 
deal of  liondon,  that  fearful  abyss  in  which  so  much  purity 
and  virtue  sink  to  rise  no  more.  It  is  a  strange  and  a  moving 
sight,  that  great  assemblage  of  human  creatures,  about  to  seek 
a  new  existence  in  that  strange  country,  which  has  all  the  hope, 
the  fresliness,  and  the  faults  of  childhood  ;  which  opens  its 
wide  arms  to  the  wanderers  of  the  earth,  its  boundless  soil  to 
every  hand  that  will  plough  it — its  deep  vitality  to  every  mind 
that  will  stir  it. 

The  cabin  passengers  had  also  arrived.  They  were  seek- 
ing their  berths,  and  stowing  away  their  luggage.  In  one 
very  small  cabin,  Gertrude  was  sitting,  feeling  at  that  moment 
more  bewildered  than  unhappy.  She  had  been  for  some  hours 
on  board,  and  hardly  having  slept  for  the  last  two  or  three 
nights,  had  dozed  a  little  that  morning,  in  spite  of  the  strange- 
ness of  the  scene.  Maurice  came  to  ask  her  if  she  wished  for 
anything.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  to  go  awhile  on  deck,  and  fix  in 
my  memory  the  last  impression  of  the  country  we  are  leaving." 
How  she  had  once  longed  to  leave  it,  she  thought  to  herself, 
as  she  mounted  the  narrow  stairs  up  to  the  deck.  How,  as  a 
girl,  she  had  often  repeated  to  herself  the  lines  that  begin — 

"  O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  deep  blue  sea ; " 

and  longed  to  fly  away,  not  to  be  at  rest,  but  in  the  very  midst 
of  the  strife  and  excitement  of  life. 

It  is  so  singular  to  go  calmly  and  coldly  through  times 
and  scenes  which  would  once  have  made  our  hearts  bound,  and 
our  eyes  sparkle  with  delight.  She  stood  on  deck,  and  gazed 
more  curiously  than  sadly  on  the  shore,  on  the  forests  of  masts, 
on  the  boats  going  to  and  fro.  on  the  mass  of  human  beinga 
3n  the  other  end  of  the  deck,  and  on  the  numerous  passengers 
on  theirs.  Maurice  stood  by  her  side,  and  was  surprised  and 
glad  that  she  did  not  seeu  more  deeply  moved  as  the  moment 


LADY-BIUD.  281 

of  departure  approached.  He  felt  it  very  much — fiir  more 
than  she  did,  in  one  sense  ;  but  he  seemed  hardly  to  care  for 
anything  now,  but  the  varying  expression  of  her  face.  She 
said  in  a  low  voice,  "  There  lies  that  great  city  which  we 
shall  never  perhaps  see  again,  that  country  which  we  are 
probably  leaving  for  ever.  I  suppose  that  to  some  people, 
death  is  very  like  such  a  departure  as  this."  Whether  they 
went  down  to  the  bottom  or  landed  in  America,  the  change 
could  hardly  be  greater. 

'•  Are  you  afraid  of  the  sea,  Gertrude  ?  " 

"  Afraid  ?      0  no.      I  am  afraid  of  nothing."     He  sighed. 

"  It  is  very  cold,"  she  said,  and  drew  her  shawl  round 
her. 

"  Will  you  go  down  again  1  It  will  be  long  yet  before  we 
move." 

"  No.  I  would  rather  stay  here.  It  amuses  me  to  watch 
the  boats  going  to  and  fro,  to  look  at  this  busy  scene,  and 
fancy  it  some  great  human  ants'  nest  ;  and  wonder  what  the 
angels  think  of  us  when  we  trouble  our  heads  about  the  grain 
of  sand  that  falls  upon  our  heads,  and  deem  it  a  mountain,  and 
strive  and  struggle  to  free  ourselves.  How  strange  it  is  to 
see  that  immense  concourse  of  human  beings,  and  feel  that 
amongst  them  there  is  probably  not  one  that  we  have  ever  seen 
before,  or  ever  will  see  again.  I  cannot  go  down  to  the  cabin, 
but  it  is  very  cold.      Will  you  fetch  me  my  cloak?  " 

Maurice  went  to  look  for  it,  and  she  remained  gazing  on 
the  water  with  a  kind  of  vague  and  vacant  interest.  A  boat 
had  put  oif  from  the  shore,  and  was  nearing  the  steamer.  It 
was  full  of  ladies,  and  one  or  two  men  also,  besides  the  rowers. 
Gertrude  was  short-sighted,  and  did  not  discern  their  faces. 
They  came  alongside  the  ship,  on  the  other  side  from  that 
where  she  was  sitting.  In  a  few  minutes  she  heard  a  person 
who  was  standing  near  her  say  to  another,  "  There  is  a  party 
of  smart  folks  arrived  to  see  the  ship  before  she  starts,  and 
stare  at  the  emigrants.  They  are  walking  about  with  the 
captain.  I  suppose  we  shan't  be  off  for  another  hour,  at  soon- 
est." A  moment  afterwards,  Maurice  came  with  the  cloak, 
and  said  to  her  hurriedly, 

"  Had    you    not    better    come    downstairs    again,    Ger 
trude?" 

'•  Why  ?"  she  said.  "  Let  me  look  upon  land  as  long  as  1 
may.      I  shall  have  enough  of  the  close  cabin  .soon." 

•'  There  are  people  on  board  whom  you  used  to  know.' 


282  LADY-BIRD. 

"  Who — wbo  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  The  Audlovs,  and  some  others." 

"  Lady  Clara  !  0  is  she  here?  "  Gertrude  ejaculated,  and 
pressed  her  hand  on  her  forehead.  One  moment  she  remained 
silent,  and  seemed  to  be  communing  with  herself,  and  to  be 
agitated  by  conflicting  impulses. 

"  I  will  go  down  to  the  cabin,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "  and 
there,  if  possible,  I  should  wish  to  see  Lady  Clara  for  one  in- 
stant.    Will  you  have  this  note  conveyed  to  her?  " 

She  hastily  wrote  a  few  lines  in  pencil,  and  drawing  down 
her  veil,  hastened  across  the  deck,  and  down  through  the 
labyrinth  below  to  the  hiding-place  she  sought.  "  Dying 
people,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 
the  narrow  couch — ''  dying  people  may  often  do  what  would 
be  wrong  in  others  ;  and  is  not  an  eternal  absence  a  kind  of 
death  ?  If  I  can  speak  to  her,  perliaps  this  throbbing  heart 
will  beat  more  calmly,  through  its  remaining  years.  O  how 
strange,  that  out  of  that  great  city  I  was  gazing  upon,  should 
have  come  at  this  time  one  of  the  very  few  I  have  known,  who 
has  ever  shed  a  brightness  over  my  path,  and  never  looked 
upon  me  but  with  kindness  !  Perhaps  she  will  not  come  ;  she 
may  be  afraid  of  a  scene.  0,  if  she  knew  how  calm  misery 
can  be  when  it  reaches  its  height !  "  She  waited  some  time, 
and  then  the  cabin-door  opened.  "  How  do  you  do,  Lady 
Clara?  "  she  said  with  that  coldness  which  suppressed  emotion 
gives.  "How  are  you?  Well,  I  hope?  I  am  so  sorry  to 
have  given  you  this  trouble." 

Lady  Clara  had  an  ansious  perturbed  look.  She  pressed 
Gertrude  to  her  heart,  and  struggled  not  to  shed  tears.  They 
sat  down  side  by  side,  each  scarcely  venturing  to  look  at  the 
other ;  but  Gertrude  was  infinitely  the  more  composed  of  the 
two,  and  able  to  keep  down  her  agitation,  and  to  speak  in  her 
usual  tone  of  voice,  while  the  other  could  hardly  command 
herself 

"  How  little  I  could  have  thought  to  see  you  again  here," 
she  falteringly  said ;  '•  I  dare  not  ask  you  all  I  wish  to  know. 
What  are  your  plans — your  intentions  ?  If  it  is  as  well  with 
you,  as  with  all  my  heart  I  wish  it  to  be,  I  hope,  dearest 
Gertrude,  that  you  are  only  leaving  England  for  a  short  time." 

"  I  am  leaving  it  for  ever,  and  therefore  I  have  wished  to 
see  you,  to  thank  you  for  the  kind  interest  you  have  always 
shown  me." 

"  Does  your  father  know  ?  has  he  suffered  that  you " 


LAUV-BIRD.  283 

"  There  is  a  deeper  gulf  between  us  than  the  ocean.  I  do 
not  complain  of  him.  0  no  !  It  is  better  that  I  should  go 
far  from  him — from  you — from  every  one.  I  wished  to  go. 
It  is  my  own  will,  my  own  doing.  But  I  have  asked  to  sec 
you,  not  only  once  more   to  look  upon  a  face  that  I  loved  in 

other  days "     She  fixed  her  eyes  steadily  on  Lady  Clara, 

and  saw  that  she  was  striving  to  master  her  emotion,  and  went 
on  in  the  same  calm  manner — "  but  also  that  I  must  ask  you 
to  do  for  me  what  you  only  can.  If  I  were  not  going  away 
for  ever,  I  could  not  do  this ;    but  as  I   shall  never   see  M. 

d'Arberg   again "      A    strange    expression   passed    over 

Lady  Clara's  face,  but  Gertrude  did  not  see  it,  and  went  on, 
"  As  I  never  shall  see  him  again,  I  think  I  may  ask  you  to 
tell  him  or  to  write  to  him,  that  I  never  heard  from  him  before 
my  marriage ;  that  I  have  been  reckless,  rash,  and  much  to 
blame,  but  not  false ;  that  I  was  deceived  into  believing  he 
had  forsaken  me,  and,  till  a  short  while  ago,  never  knew  that 
he  had  not.  I  wish  him  to  know  this,  and  I  hope  he  will  re- 
member me  in  his  prayers.  Will  you  tell  him  so,  Lady  Clara? 
Kind  friend  of  my  happy  days,  you  only  know  what  I  had 
gained,  and  what  I  have  lost.  Will  you  do  what  I  have  asked 
you?" 

Lady  Clara  was  looking  painfully  embarrassed,  her  colour 
went  and  came.  "  When  I  can  do  this,  dearest  Gertrude,  I 
do  not  exactly  know,  for  M.  d'Arberg  is  going —  I  suppose  I 
had  better  tell  you —  It  is  so  strange,  so  extraordinary  ! 
Did  you  indeed  never  expect  to  see  him  again?  "  Gertrude's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  hers  but  she  did  not  speak.  "  He  too  is 
going  to  America — I — I  have  just  seen  him."'  She  turned 
very  pale  and  murmured,  "  Where  ?  "  "  I  had  better  prepare 
you  for  it ;  I  don't  know  how  much  or  how  little  you  will 
mind  meeting  him  again,  but  at  all  events  you  ought  to  know 
that  at  any  moment —  In  short,  the  fact  is,  he  is  on  board 
this  very  vessel —  " 

Gertrude  stood  up  and  put  her  hand  on  Lady  Clara's  arm 
"  Then,"  she  said,  "  take  me  with  you.  Take  me  to  see  him 
once  more — and  then  all  will  be  over.  He  will  go  away  with 
you,  but  once  before  my  death  I  shall  have  seen  his  face  again. 
I  have  longed  for  it  till  I  almost  expected  it,  up  to  the  last 
few  weeks.  That  moment  is  now  come.  Take  me  where  I 
can  see  him.  Lady  Clara.  If  I  wait  much  longer  I  shall  not 
have  strength  to  go  through  it  calmly.  Now  I  can.  Do  not 
be  afraid.     Let  us  go." 


284  LADY-BIRD. 

Lady  Clara  was  much  agitated  :  she  did  not  know  how  to 
act — she  had  never  been  in  any  difficulty — had  never  encoun- 
tered a  trjnng  scene  before :  she  was  nervous,  and  afraid  to 
speak  or  to  explain.  But  she  felt  it  was  necessary,  and  taking 
both  Grertrude's  hands  in  hers,  she  said,  "  Dear  unhappy  child, 
you  will  have,  I  fear,  but  too  many  opportunities  of  seeing 
him.  It  is  a  sad  position  for  you  and  for  him  ;  at  least  I  fear 
from  your  looks,  from  your  words,  that  it  will  be  a  trial  to 
you^as  it  must  be  a  great  one  to  him,  but  he  is  going  in  this 
very  steamer, — going  with  a  party  of  emigrants.  It  was  to 
see  him  off  that  we  came  here ' 

Gertrude  leant  an  instant  against  the  door  of  the  cabin, 
and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  When  she  raised  it  again,  it 
would  have  been  difficult  for  any  one  to  read  its  expression. 
There  was  a  tumultuous  sensation  in  her  brain  and  in  her 
heart.  She  could  not  speak.  At  that  moment  some  one 
knocked,  and  she  heard  Mr.  Audley's  voice  calling  Lady 
Clara.  "  "We  must  go,  my  love.  They  want  us  away — the 
boat  is  ready."  One  long  kiss  Lady  Clara  gave  Gertrude,  and 
burst  into  tears.  "  Come,  make  haste,"  her  husband  said,  as 
she  came  out.  She  looked  at  him  through  her  tears,  and  said, 
"  Say  good-bye  to  her."  He  looked  into  the  room,  but  Ger- 
trude had  turned  away,  and  he  followed  his  wife  upstairs. 

It  had  been  a  false  alarm  that  the  vessel  had  been  about 
to  start.  There  was  yet  a  further  delay.  "  I  have  seen  her 
husband,"  he  whispered,  as  they  stood  again  on  the  deck. 
"  We  met  face  to  face,  and  shook  hands.  Does  d'Arberg  know 
they  are  on  board  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  sure  he  does  not ;  where  is  he  ?  " 

'•  Looking  after  some  of  his  people,  I  believe — stowing 
them  away  under  proper  protection,  and  comforting  those  who 
take  on,  as  they  call  it,  at  bidding  farewell  to  this  old  land  of 
workhouses  and  parochial  relief  Well,  well,  this  '  Amor  pa- 
triae' is  a  funny  sort  of  thing,  and  lurks  in  strange  corners  of 
the  human  heart.  Let  us  look  for  him  amongst  the  steerage 
passengers.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  him  that  that  Lady-Bird  of 
yours  is  here  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  It  will  be  kinder,  I  think.  In 
such  cases  nothing  is  so  bad  as  meeting  unprepared." 

They  joined  some  of  the  other  people  who  had  come  on 
board  to  see  the  emigrants  off,  and  looked  for  Adrien  in  every 
direction.  They  could  not  find  him,  till  just  when  the  last 
bell  rang,  and  they  were  hurrying  into  their  boat,  he  joined 


LADY-BIHD.  285 

tLcm  for  nn  instant ;  but  there  was  only  time  for  her  to  shake 
hands  with  him,  and  she  looked  upon  that  ship  with  a  strange 
interest,  as  they  rowed  away  from  it.  She  thouglit  of  all  that 
it  contained,  wondered  over  the  extraordinary  coincidence  that 
had  brought  together  two  persons  who  had  been  everything  to 
each  other  once,  who  had  been  so  abruptly,  so  irrevocably 
parted  as  it  had  seemed  until  this  day,  and  now  he  was  near 
her,  and  he  did  not  know  it,  and  she  was  near  him,  and  she 
knew  it.  How  soon  would  chance  bring  them  together  ? 
What  would  their  meeting  be?  What  would  their  parting 
be  ?  What  a  strange  episode  of  life  to  both  that  Atlantic 
passage  might  prove.  Would  it  be  the  end  of  the  romance  of 
tiieir  existence,  or  the  beginning  of  sin  and  of  sorrow  ?  Lady 
Clara  was  thoughtful ;  she  felt  glad  that  her  path  had  never 
led  through  briars  and  precipices. — that  it  had  been  so  smooth 
and  so  straight.  Perhaps  she  did  not  thank  God  enough,  for 
it  is  a  great  blessing  not  to  have  been  exposed  to  temptation : 
it  is  a  greater  one,  however,  to  have  passed  through  the  fur- 
nace unscathed. 

The  voyage  has  begun.  The  vessel  is  gliding  along  the 
yet  smooth  waters,  but  the  wind  is  whistling,  and  the  rain  is 
beginning  to  fall.  Grcrtrude  is  lying  on  her  narrow  couch, 
and  with  closed  eyes  listening  to  the  beating  of  her  own  heart ; 
he  is  near  her — he  whom  she  has  loved  as  few  women  love ; 
he  is  near  her,  here,  where  for  awhile  nothing  can  part  them. 
They  may  avoid  each  other,  but  far  apart  they  cannot  be. 
The  same  ship  holds  them, — the  same  waves  carry  them, — the 
same  wind  drives  them  on,  and  they  breathe  the  same  air. 
She  opened  the  little  window  of  her  cabin,  and  gazed  upon  the 
water  so  near  to  her  head.  It  gave  her  a  dizzy  vague  feeling 
of  trust  and  of  fear.  She  was  carried  on  she  knew  not  whith- 
er. She  was  safe,  and  yet  very  near  destruction.  There  was 
a  plank  between  her  and  the  deep  sea.  What  was  tliere  be- 
tween her  and  sin  ;  not  even  in  that  hour  a  good  resolution. 
She  was  very  tired  of  suffering — that  was  all  she  knew.  0 
how  busy  the  tempter  was  in  that  hour  with  that  weary  spirit, 
how  he  whispered  in  that  watching  ear,  how  he  hung  over 
that  silent  form.  No  thought  of  guilt  did  he  send  to  pass 
before  those  closed  eyes.  He  only  said,  "  Rest  a  little.  Da 
not  fight  so  incessantly  with  what  no  human  strength  caa 
conquer. — the  might  of  a  love,  which  is  a  part  of  yourself. 
Look  once  more  upon  that  face,  which  you  had  thought  never 
to  see  again.     It  will  calm,  not  distui-b  you, — it  will  strength- 


286  LADT-BIRD. 

en,  not  weaken  you.  Was  it  not  from  him  you  once  learned 
what  since  you  have  forgotten  ?  Go  and  learn  again  from 
him  to  be  good,  to  be  strong." 

Thus  spoke  the  tempter,  and  she  listened,  but  he  was  only 
sowing  seed  ;  she  did  not  act  upon  those  thoughts, — not  one 
step  would  she  have  stirred  to  advance  the  moment  on  which 
her  soul  was  set,  but  at  the  approach  of  which,  at  the  very 
idea  of  which,  she  trembled  like  a  leaf  Maurice  came  and 
sat  by  her  some  time.  He  thought  she  was  asleep.  A  bell 
rang,  and  he — as  he  fancied — awoke  her,  and  asked  if  she 
would  come  to  dinner ;  she  refused,  and  begged  him  to  go 
without  her.  She  could  not  bear  that  together  they  should 
see  Adrien  for  the  first  time.  She  felt  they  would  now  meet, 
and  the  hour  that  he  was  absent  appeared  to  her  a  whole  day. 
When  he  returned  she  looked  at  him,  and  drew  a  deep,  quick 
sigh,  but  there  was  no  agitation  or  difference  in  his  manner. 
He  began  talking  of  insignificant  things,  and  giving  her  some 
account  of  their  fellow-passengers.  Was  he  dissembling,  was 
it  possible  he  did  not  feel  all  it  was  to  her  to  see  Adrien 
again?  Had  he  forgotten  the  letter,  the  scene?  It  was  im- 
possible he  could  have  seen  him,  or  he  would  not  be  so  un- 
moved. Was  it  a  mistake  or  a  dream  ? — Was  Adrien  not  on 
board  ?  Then,  by  the  cold,  heavy  feeling  at  her  heart,  she 
almost  thought  she  must  have  been  happy  during  the  last  few 
hours. 

Towards  evening  her  head  was  aching  intensely,  and  she 
longed  to  breathe  the  fresh  air.  She  went  to  the  ^eck,  and 
spf.  some  time  watching  the  waves  and  the  sunset  clouds,  or 
/y».zing  on  the  persons  who  were  passing  and  repassing  before 
hQX.  He  was  not  amongst  them.  She  began  to  think  that 
she  had  dreamt  that  Lady  Clara  had  ever  told  her  he  was  on 
board.  She  went  into  tlie  principal  cabin,  and  still  he  was 
not  there ;  she  became  almost  convinced  that  her  ears,  her 
fancy,  her  senses,  had  deceived  her.  Thus  did  the  next 
day  also  pass,  and  the  next  also — till  towards  night  she 
overheard  two  persons,  who  were  sitting  near  her,  talking  of 
jomething  that  arrested  her  attention. 

"  Did  yoa  say  he  was  a  Frenchman  ?"  one  said  to  the 
.;ther. 

"So  I  was  told;  it's  queer,  isn't  it?  Lives  with  them 
vi^JlJrJy;  eats,  and  sleeps,  and  sits  where  they  do; — talks  to 
ibtJM  kot  nights  too,  and  in  English,  which  is  curious.  Those 
Iri.-»s    .'owd  about  him,  as  if  he  were  St.  Patrick  himself     I 


LADY-BIRD. 


281 


went  en  the  deck  on  purpose  to  hear  him  last  evening.  It  is 
amusing  enough ;  he  tells  them  stories,  and  they  groan,  and 
laugh,  and  ejaculate,  and  cross  themselves  all  in  one  time. 
They're  a  strange  set,  those  Irish." 

"  But  what  docs  this  French  count  do  it  for?" 

"  He  is  half  English,  they  say,  and  has  property  in  Ire- 
land, and  some  of  that  set  are  his  own  people,  and  he  has 
come  out  with  them  to  set  them  going  on  the  other  side,  and 
he  lives  with  them  to  learn  how  they  are  treated,  and  give  the 
government  an  acccount  of  their  hardships,  which  are  many, 
I  fear,  poor  souls.  It's  a  Quixotic  sort  of  thing.  Might  have 
learned  it  all,  I  dare  say,  without  so  much  to  do  about  it." 

"  The  wind's  getting  up  ;  we  shall  have  a  rough  night  of 
it,  I  expect." 

"  It's  cold  sitting  here      Let's  walk." 

That  night  Gertrude  laid  her  head  on  the  pillow,  and  the 
noise  of  the  wind  and  the  waves  seemed  again,  as  on  the  first 
day,  to  speak  of  one  who  was  lying  not  far  off  on  a  hard  and 
narrow  couch,  whose  thoughtful  eyes  were  raised  to  Heaven 
in  prayer,  as  the  ship  bounded  along,  and  who  little  weened 
that  she  whose  image  still  haunted  him,  amidst  his  days'  long 
labours  and  his  nights'  short  rest,  was  also  watching  and 
listening  to  the  same  melodies,  and  gazing  at  the  same 
stormy  sky. 

"  Mrs.  Redmond,  ain't  you  bored  to  death?"  said  to  Ger- 
trude a  pretty  little  woman  whom  she  had  sat  by  at  meals, 
and  who  had  been  civil  and  kind  to  her  during  the  last  three 
days 

'•  No."  she  answered  quickly,  "  that  is  one  of  the  sufferings 
I  have  ceased  to  experience.  I  am  never  bored.  I  envy 
those  who  are,"  she  added  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Well,  I  think  you  are  a  very  happy  person.  When  I  am 
at  home  and  have  plenty  of  things  to  attend  to,  it  docs  very 
well,  but  I  am  too  sick  to  read  or  work,  and  my  husband  likes 
to  be  on  deck  all  day,  and  I  don't  know  really  what  to  do 
with  myself  If  it  is  not  very  rough  this  evening,  would  you 
mind  coming  with  me  to  look  at  the  steerage  people,  and  listen 
to  what  that  strange  gentleman  that's  always  with  them  reads 
and  says  to  them?      Somebody  told  me  it  was  very  curious." 

"  I  should  like  it,"  Gertrude  answered  in  a  low  voice,  "  if 
we  do  not  go  too  near  them." 

"  0  you  don't  fancy  going  amongst  those  low  people, 
ocithcr  do  I ;  but  we  need  not  be  close  to  them,  you  know  " 


288  LADY-BIRD. 

That  wa.s  little  in  Gertrude's  thoughts.  Would  she  have 
shrunk  from  the  poorest  and  the  roughest  of  those  creatures 
amongst  whom  Adrien  sat? — of  whom  he  took  such  careful 
heed  1  Did  she  not  envy  the  child  who  sat  at  his  feet — the 
poor  orphan  girl  who  told  him  her  tale  of  sorrow,  and  heard 
words  of  comfort  from  his  lips — the  old  man  whom  he  support- 
ed up  the  narrow  stairs,  and  placed  by  his  side  when  they  all 
gathered  together  after  their  evening  meal,  to  forget  awhile 
the  common  hardships  of  their  lot?  And  the  suflPeiings  Oi 
the  steerage  were,  for  passengers  in  an  emigrant  vessel, 
greater  then  than  they  are  now.  The  ordinary  comforts  of  life 
were  scarce  ;  age  and  infancy  had  much  to  endure  ;  and  even 
those  who  had  been  used  to  the  wild  roughness  of  their  Irish 
homes,  or  the  wretched  dens  of  their  Loudon  abodes,  had 
trouble  to  bear  up  against  the  varied  annoyances  of  this  pas- 
sage in  their  poor  lives,  this,  in  a  twofold  sense,  their  passage 
to  the  New  World. 

The  two  women  whom  chance  had  thrown  together  that 
day  sat  down  in  a  corner  of  the  ship,  sheltered  by  some  bales 
of  goods,  with  their  cloaks  on,  and  their  veils  down.     They 

came  there,  the  one  to  seek  amusement,  the  other What ! 

0  what  are  you  going  to  do  there,  Gertrude?  What  business 
have  you  to  look  on  that  face  again  ?  What  right  have  you  to 
listen  to  that  voice  which  thrills  to  your  very  heart? — Yes 
hide  yourself  from  his  sight ;  pull  the  veil  closer  round  your 
head.  The  wind  is  blowing  about  you,  but  there  is  some- 
thing wilder  than  the  wind  in  your  heart  and  in  your  brain. 
He  speaks,  and  you  tremble.  Are  you  sure  it  is  he?  For 
one  instant  look  up — there  he  is  opposite  to  you — not  very  far 
from  you;  he  is  looking  pale  and  very  thin,  but  the  light  in 
his  eyes  is  not  dimmed.  The  soul  shines  out  of  them  as 
brightly  as  ever,  and  the  smile  that  illumines  that  face  was 
never  more  beautiful  than  now.  All  tliose  expressive  counte- 
nances are  turned  to  him  ;  they  crowd  about  him,  his  poor 
emigrants;  most  of  them  he  personally  knows,  and  if  they 
were  his  children,  his  manner — when  he  speaks  to  them — 
could  not  be  more  gentle.  What  if  in  that  instant  his  eye 
should  fix  itself  upon  you,  Gertrude — would  it  be  gentle  or 
stern  ?  You  know  not,  but  one  thing  you  feel  ;  once  before 
you  leave  that  ship  you  must  speak  to  him,  you  must  carrv 
away  with  you  the  remembrance  of  one  kind  word  from  bis 
lips. 

Now  the  groups  of  listeners  are  hushed  into  silence,  foi  he 


LADY-Bir.D.  289 

is  reading  to  them.  It  was  the  account  of  the  shipwreck  of 
St.  Paul.  When  he  came  to  the  verse  "  For  an  angel  of  God, 
whose  I  am,  and  whom  I  serve,  stood  by  me  this  night,''  there 
was  one  in  that  audience  who  forgot  that  he  was  not  speaking 
of  himself  She  felt  as  if  God's  angel  were  indeed  standing 
by  him:  she  felt  as  if  God's  claim  upon  him  had  been  too 
strong  for  an  earthly  love  to  dispute  it,  and  she  hung  on  each 
word  that  fell  from  his  lips  as  if  it  contained  a  message  from 
Heaven.  Then  he  spoke  to  those  Irish  hearts,  as  one  who  knew 
them  well — their  strength  and  their  weakness, — their  childlike 
faith,  mighty  in  life  and  in  death,  and  fervent  as  their  passions. 
He  set  before  them  vivid  pictures  of  vice  and  of  virtue,  of  Hea- 
ven and  of  hell,  clothed  in  familiar  words  and  illustrated  by 
fanciful  similes.  It  was  strange  to  observe  how  his  genius  and 
his  eloquence,  which  had  often  commanded  the  applause  of  lis- 
tening assemblies,  knew  how  to  assume  a  form  that  captivated 
the  attention  of  that  restless  group.  How  their  eyes  glared 
and  flashed  when  he  bade  them  fight  with  the  devil,  and  snatch 
from  him  his  victims  ;  how  they  laughed  a  wild  laugh  of  de- 
light when  he  told  them  how  to  cheat  him  of  the  souls  he  had 
made  sure  of,  by  turning  their  back  upon  him  when  he  least 
expected  it,  and  beginning,  even  the  very  worst  among  tlieni, 
to  serve  God  that  night.  He  drew  pictures  of  good  and  bad 
Irishmen  ;  all  good  servants,  however, — all  zealous  of  their 
work,  and  intelligent  at  their  business — sure  of  high  wages  at 
last  and  a  high  place  somewhere  ;  they  would  do  nothing  by 
halves.  When  they  served  Almighty  God  it  was  with  all 
their  hearts  ;  when  they  bound  themselves  to  Satan  they  were 
clever  at  his  work  and  very  like  him  in  his  ways,  for  they 
never  ceased  believing  while  they  blasphemed,  and  trembling 
while  they  cursed. 

Once  in  the  midst  of  his  discourse,  he  pointed  to  the  sky, 
to  a  bright  star  that  shone  amidst  the  clouds,  and  asked  them 
who  it  was  like,  and  simultaneously  there  rose  from  the  whole 
group  the  "  Ave  Maris  Stella,"  that  hymn  which  has  cheered 
so  many  mariners  through  the  surges  of  life,  as  well  as  on  the 
billows  of  the  ocean.  When  the  singing  died  away  he  told 
them  tales  of  other  times,  or  gave  them  descriptions  of  the 
land  they  were  going  to,  or  set  before  them  some  high  example 
of  patient  suifering,  or  heroic  exertion.  Before  parting  they 
all  knelt  together  and  said  the  night  prayers,  which  most  of 
them  had  been  used  to.  In  the  course  of  them  there  is  a 
short  and  impressive  pause  for  the  examination  of  ccLscicnce 

19 


290  LADY-BIRD. 

When  many  are  joined  together  in  this,  there  is  something 
solemn  and  touching  in  the  sudden  hush  of  many  voices — the 
profound  silence  of  those  few  moments  during  which  each  sepa- 
rate heart  is  questioning  itself  and  laying  before  God  its  various 
and  widely  different  amount  of  guilt  and  of  temptation.  It  was 
so  in  this  case,  and  deep  to  her  heart's  core  did  Gertrude  feel 
it.  It  seemed  as  if  Adrien  must  be  reading  there  the  sin  that 
she  had  ceased  to  struggle  with ;  perhaps  she  then  felt  also 
that  we  are  sure  of  God's  mercy,  but  never  of  man's,  for  she 
shuddered  at  the  thought  of  Adrien's  knowing  how  she,  the 
wife  of  another,  gave  way  to  a  guilty  though  secret  affection, 
even  though  he  himself  were  its  object. 

When  the  prayers  were  ended,  and  her  companion  who 
was  somewhat  weary  rose  to  go,  she  followed  her,  and  found 
Maurice  waiting  for  her  in  their  cabin.  He  was  sitting  at 
the  small  table  against  the  wall  with  his  head  leaning  on  his 
hands.  She  put  hers  on  his  shoulder,  and  asked  him  if  he 
were  asleep. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  he  said,  without  turning  towards 
her. 

"  On  deck,"  she  answered,  while  a  sudden  flush  suffused 
her  cheek.  He  looked  at  her  attentively,  as  if  to  scan  the 
expression  of  her  face.      She  turned  away,  and  he  murmured, 

"  Well,  everything  must  come  to  an  end,  I  suppose." 

"  Are  you  already  weary  of  the  voyage  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  am  weary  of  my  life." 

He  went  away,  and  came  back  again.  He  moved  im- 
patiently about  the  narrow  little  slip  of  a  room,  and  then  stop- 
ping opposite  to  her,  said  with  bitterness,  "  It  is  a  pity  that 
we  are  not  steerage  passengers.  It  would  have  made  you 
happier,  I  suppose."  The  colour  left  her  check,  and  she  bit 
her  pale  lips  almost  through.  "  I  do  not  mean  to  be  unkind 
to  you.  Gei'trude,  but  you  know,  oh  you  must  know  that  a 
man's  heart  can  be  tried  almost  beyond  endurance."  Neither 
of  them  mentioned  the  name  of  Adrien ;  and  the  next  few 
days  passed  like  the  preceding  ones. 

M.  d'Arberg  never  left  the  part  of  the  vessel  where  he  had 
cast  his  lot ;  the  cabin  passengers  often  spoke  of  him.  Some 
thought  he  must  be  a  little  deranged  ;  some  admired  his  con- 
duct, and  wondered  at  his  self-devotion ;  many  went  of  an 
evening  to  listen  when  he  read  or  conversed  with  his  people 
Gertrude  always  sought  that  same  place  where  she  had  sat  the 
first  night.     There,  with  her   face  concealed  by  her  veil,  she 


LADY-BIRD.  291 

remain  ^d  in  all  weathers.  Her  little  companion  grew  tired  of 
sitting  with  lier.  It  amused  her  well  enough  at  first,  but  sho 
became  weary  of  Gertrude's  abstraction,  who  was  too  much 
absorbed  in  the  scene  to  converse  with  her.  She  did  not  seem 
to  hear  when  she  whispered  remarks  about  the  queer  faces 
that  appeared  amongst  the  listeners.  Mrs.  Darton,  for  that  was 
her  name,  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Mr.s.  Redmond  was 
after  all  very  stupid,  and  she  left  off  going  to  the  same  seat, 
and  nobody  else  found  their  way  to  it.  That  one  figure  in 
black  was  always  there.  Adrien's  eye  now  and  then  rested 
upon  it.  There  was  something  in  its  attitude  which  he  fan 
cicd  was  familiar  to  hiui,  tlioughhe  did  not  discern  what  it  was 
that  it  recalled  to  his  mind. 

One  evening,  wlien  he  came  as  usual  to  his  post,  he  looked 
worn  and  fatigued.  Disease  was  beginning  to  spread  on  the 
lower  deck.  The  sleeping  rooms  were  dreadfully  close — the 
food  was  bad — the  weather  had  been  heavy  and  disagreeable 
during  the  last  few  days — the  winds  contrary.  Tlie  passage 
promised  to  be  long  and  tedious  ;  murmurs  and  complaints 
had  been  loud  in  the  passengers'  cabin  that  day  on  the 
subject.  Maurice  had  said  nothing ;  but  his  heart  had  sunk 
within  him  as  he  heard  it.  He  loathed  that  sliip  with  inex- 
pressible disgust.  He  looked  'sometimes  at  tlie  waves  with 
an  expression  that  would  have  pierced  through  Mary's  sou!, 
had  she  seen  it.  But  what  di<l  (Jertrude  feel?  Slie  felt  like 
a  criminal  reprieved — like  one  rcsjiitcd  on  the  very  verge  of 
the  grave.  On  the  evening  we  are  speaking  of,  Adrien  had 
seen  much  sorrow  and  sufi'ering  amongst  the  emigrants,  espe- 
cially amongst  those  who  were  not  his  own  people.  For  them  he 
had  managed  before  starting  to  ensure  a  certain  degree  of  com- 
fort. But  he  was  no  longer  tlie  rich  man  tliat  he  used  to  be. 
He  had  taken  some  time  ago  tlie  gospel  advice,  the  evangeli- 
cal counsel,  and  had  sold  all  or  almost  all,  had  given  to  the 
poor,  and  was  now  following  his  Lord's  footsteps,  but  with  a 
thorn  in  his  heart  which  he  endured  without  wincing,  but  which 
Mas  sharper  than  toil,  or  abstinence,  or  bodily  pain. 

He  felt  on  this  day  that  it  was  ditficult  to  meet  the  usual 
exertion  of  that  hour.  He  was  anxious  about  a  poor  child 
below  who  had  sickened  with  the  fever.  He  was  not  contented 
with  the  care  that  the  surgeon  on  board  bestowed  upon  it — ' 
he  had  seen  the  mother's  wistful  countenance,  and  it  haunted 
him.  But  he  roused  himself,  and  perhaps  more  than  evei 
reached  the  hearts  of  his  audience,  when  after  reading  to  them 


292  LADY-BIRD. 

a  wliile,  he  began  talking  to  tliem  out  of  the  depths  of  hia 
own.  lie  compared  the  voyage  they  were  making  to  the  great 
voyage  of  life,  and  the  illustration  came  home  to  them  with 
strange  power.  He  spoke  of  sorrow,  of  trials,  of  those  which 
God  sends  to  us  as  if  straight  from  his  own  will,  of  those  in 
which  men  and  their  misdeeds  are  the  agents ;  of  palpable  and 
of  nameless  suffering,  of  disappointment  and  of  hopelessness  ;  of 
remorse  and  of  confession,  of  sin  and  of  contrition ;  of  faith 
and  its  triumphs,  of  light  in  darkness,  and  hope  against  hope. 
Once  he  alluded  to  himself;  he  said  it  was  not  a  theory  with 
him,  that  deep  sense  of  the  value  of  suffering  which  he  wished 
to  impart  to  them.  No,  those  who  had  never  gone  through  a 
severe  affliction  knew,  as  a  point  of  faith,  that  it  was  precious 
as  expiation,  and  weighed  in  the  balance  of  eternal  justice  ; 
but  they  could  not  know  what  it  did  for  the  soul,  till  they  had 
themselves  become  familiar  with  it,  and  received  it  as  a  bosom 
friend.  When  every  earthly  hope  of  happiness  is  departed, 
when  a  man  stands  alone  with  his  God  and  his  suffering,  then  he 
could  tell  tliem  by  experience  (and  his  voice  trembled)  how  that 
God  reveals  himself,  how  that  grief,  like  the  burning  couch  on 
which  martyrs  have  smiled,  becomes  dear  and  sacred  to  his 
soul,  and  wins  for  him  peace  at  first  and  joy  at  last. 

"  I  know,"  he  continued,  "  that  some  of  you  have  sad 
thoughts  to  struggle  with  ;  I  know  some  of  your  sorrows  ;  I 
know  some  of  your  fears  :  would  that  I  could  tell  you  how  one 
short  year  ago  I  felt  as  if  my  cross  were  heavier  than  I  could 
bear,  how  the  sudden   blasting  of  the  dearest  hopes  I  had 

cherished "     He  paused,  and  turned  ns  white  as  a  sheet. 

What  had  he  seen  just  then?  That  face — those  eyes  with 
their  deep,  shadowy,  heart-rending  expression.  Those  eyes 
that  had  met  his  and  darted  into  his  very  soul,  not  the  mem- 
ory, but  the  actual  living  presence  of  an  unforgotten  reality. 
0  was  it  a  vision, — an  instant's  delusion?  Again  that  motion- 
less form,  that  bent  down  head,  that  shadowy  figure  was 
shrouded  as  before,  as  night  after  night  he  had  seen  it.  Was 
it  a  dream  that  mocked  him  for  an  instant, — a  phantom  that 
had  been  raised,  and  had  looked  at  him  with  the  eyes  he  was 
ever  trying  to  forget?  He  spoke  again  of  peace,  but  it  was 
with  a  more  tremulous  voice.  His  own  had  a  sure  founda- 
tion, but  its  surface  had  been  disturbed.  The  rock  was  un- 
ehaken,  but  the  waves  had  washed  over  it. 

And  she  who  had  listened,  and  had  looked  upon  him  that 
night — what  strange  impulse  had  made  her  raise  her  veil  at 


LADY- BIRD,  203 

that  moment  ?  Wliat  fear  had  made  her  cover  her  fiicc  with 
her  hands  when  his  eyes  had  met  hers  ?  There  she  remained 
long  after  he  had  ceased  to  speak.  She  had  not  stirred  or 
looked  round.  Once  a  lieavy  sigh  had  been  breathed  close  to 
her  ear.  But  her  soul  was  absorbed,  and  she  tliought  not  of 
it  again.  Adrien's  words  had  reached  many  hearts  that  night, 
but  had  sunk  deeper  into  one  than  into  all  the  rest. 

"  I  always  thought  there  was  a  likeness  between  him  and 
Mary,"  Maurice  said  to  himself,  and  almost  felt  as  if  she  had 
been  speaking  to  him  through  the  lips  of  the  man  whom  he 
had  once  so  much  loved,  and  for  a  while  so  much  hated. 
"  Well,  we  are  all  miserable  enough,"  he  ejaculated,  as  lie  left 
the  deck  and  slowly  sought  his  cabin  ;  and  at  that  moment 
the  words  of  the  Bible  came  into  his  head,  "  And  we  indeed 
justly,  but  this  man  has  done  no  evil."  And  from  that  hour 
his  feelings  changed,  and  he  ceased  to  hate  Adrieu 


CHAPTER  XXIII.  - 

"  Most,  (laiigerous  is  tliat  temptatiou  wliich  (iocs  goail  us  on 
•  To  siu  in  loving  virtue." 

SlIAKESreAKE. 

"Tis  one  tiling  to  he  teTupted, 
Anotlier  tliinfi  to  full." 

Ihid. 

The  following  day  several  of  tlie  emigrants  were  ill  with  the 
fever,  and  Adrien  then  found  that  tlie  task  he  had  undertaken 
was  no  liglit  one.  There  was  more  suffering  and  inconvenience 
in  the  mere  fact  of  living  amongst  them  than  most  men  would 
have  encountered;  but  when  illness  was  added  to  privation  and 
discontent,  the  hardships  became  almost  intolerable,  but  then, 
in  proportion,  increased  the  opportunities  of  usefulness,  both 
to  the  bodies  and  the  souls  of  these  sufferers.  As  far  as  his 
power  went,  he  ministered  to  them  assiduously.  He  had 
passed  a  restless  night ;  for  having  ascertained  the  previous 
evening  from  the  list  of  passengers  that  Maurice  and  Ger- 
trude were  indeed  amongst  them,  he  remained  awake,  reflect- 
ing on  that  strange  meeting  that  chance  had  effected ;  or  if 
he  slumbered  awhile,  he  was  haunted  by  those  eyes  which  for 
a  moment  had  been  fixed  upon  him,  disturbed  by  dreams  in 


294  LADY-BIRD. 

which  that  face  was  ever  present,  and  would  start  up  under 
the  impression  that  she  was  near  him  —  she  whom  he  had 
never  expected  to  see  again. 

Sleep  fled  from  his  eyelids;  he  mused  on  her  fate, —  he 
wondered  whether  she  had  preferred  Maurice  to  him,  or  if 
not,  what  had  induced  her  to  marry  him  ?  Against  his  will 
his  thoughts  recurred  to  the  period  of  their  love  and  their 
parting.  Emotions  which  he  had  mastered,  regrets  he  had,  as 
it  were,  trodden  down,  seemed  to  rise  again  ;  and  it  was  only 
in  hard  work  the  next  day,  in  practical  devotion  to  the  objects 
of  his  interest,  that  he  recovered  that  inward,  as  well  as  out- 
ward self-possession  which  he  had  long  struggled  for,  and 
lately  had  attained.  When  the  evening  hour  of  converse 
with  his  people  approached,  he  had  some  trouble  to  preserve 
that  composure ;  and  while  preparing  his  subjects  of  reading 
and  discourse,  he  felt  as  if  each  word  that  night  had  a  double 
meaning,  and  might  convey  to  Gertrude  a  reproach,  an  appeal, 
or  a  regret.  He  intended  to  seek  her  and  Maurice  that  eve- 
ning, lie  had  not  injured  them,  though  they  had  injured 
him  ;  and  both  might  be  happier  for  his  forgiveness.  It  was 
not  in  his  nature  to  stand  coldly  aloof.  lie  could  understand 
their  shrinking  from  his  presence,  but  why  should  he  turn 
away  from  them  ?  Perhaps  it  was  poverty  that  was  driving 
them  from  England.  There  was  a  world  of  misery  in  that 
one  glance,  that  one  rapid  vision  of  her  face  he  had  had  the 
previous  night.  He  longed  to  see  it  once  more,  and  drive 
away  the  memory  of  that  look  that  had  given  a  mute  but  too 
expressive  answer  to  the  allusion  he  had  made  to  his  own  sub- 
dued sufferings, — his  own  mastered  grief  He  talked  to  his 
people  of  the  patient  endurance  of  bodily  pain  ;  he  could. not 
trust  himself  to  speak  of  the  trials  of  the  soul.  He  told  them 
stories  of  the  first  discovery  of  America,  the  land  they  were 
bound  to.  Some  micht  have  thoutjht  that  the  tone  of  his 
mind  was  more  cheerful  than  the  day  before.  Much  that  he 
said  was  in  rather  a  gay  strain,  and  there  was  more  laughing 
amongst  his  hearers  than  usual.  He  steered  clear  of  any  of 
those  topics  that  move  men  deeply. 

After  the  "ffS^eniblage  broke  up,  he  stood  irresolute  for  an 
instant.  One  by  one  they  disappeared,  and  he  was  left  alone, 
or  nearly  so.  But  he  felt  he  must  speak  to  her  ;  she  had  has- 
tily risen  from  her  usual  seat,  and  was  going  away  in  another 
direction.  He  overtook  her,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  Will 
you  not  shake  hands  with  me  ?  "     She  stopped  ;  the  moment 


LADY-BIRD.  295 

BO  longed  for,  so  dreaded,  was  come,  and  she  Lad  to  meet  it 
as  best  she  might.  With  eyes  averted,  she  phaced  her  trem- 
bling hand  in  his,  and  then  stood  still,  as  if  unable  to  a'ove  or 
to  speak. 

■'  Will  you  not  sit  down  one  instant,"  he  said.,  "  ai)d  tell 
me  something  about  yourself,  and  about  Maurice  1  Believe 
me,  I  care  for  your  happiness  as  much  as  ever.  I  have  prayed 
for  it  every  day  of  my  life." 

"  Then  vou  have  prayed  in  vain."  she  passionately  ex- 
claimed. "Cease  to  weary  Heaven  with  such  prayers, — they 
are  a  mockery." 

He  was  silent.  This  answer  struck  a  chill  into  his  heart, 
and  a  sort  of  cloud  passed  before  his  eyes.  "  It  had  been 
better  that  we  had  never  met  again,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
as  if  speaking  more  to  herself  than  to  him  ;  "  better  for  you, 
at  least,  if  indeed  you  had  supposed  I  was  happy,  for  I  be- 
lieve you  wish  me  so,  and  I  cannot  deceive  you.  It  would 
have  been  right,  I  know,  to  shake  hands  with  you  kindly,  and 
then  talk  of  our  respective  plans  and  projects,  and  speak,  and 
look,  and  seem  as  if  we  had  never  spoken,  or  looked,  or  felt 
differently.  This  would  have  been  right,  perhaps,  but  there 
are  things  that  some  people  ca7i  do,  and  that  others  cannot." 

There  was  something  reproachful  in  her  manner  of  saying 
this  ;  and  greatly  moved,  he  exclaimed,  "  God  help  me  !  Ger- 
trude, do  you  imagine  /  have  not  suffered  1  " 

She  looked  at  him,  and  in  his  pale,  calm  face  she  saw  an 
expression  of  such  deep  and  painful  anxiety,  as  he  gazed  into 
hers,  that  she  knew  at  once  that  he  felt  for  her  even  more 
than  she  felt  for  herself 

"  It  is  of  no  use,"  she  hurriedly  continued.  "  Why  should 
we  talk  together?  Why  have  we  met  again?  I  have  nothing 
to  reproacli  you  with,  and  you  will  not,  I  know,  reproach  me : 
though  you  might,  and  perhaps  you  ought." 

"You  have  said  too  much  already  thus  to  leave  me,  Ger- 
trude. It  will  be  better  for  both  of  us  now  to  clear  up  the 
mystery  of  the  past,  and  understand  how  it  came  to  pass  that 
we,  who  parted  as  we  did,  should  meet  again  as  we  do  now. 
Did  you  receive  a  letter  from  me  before  you  married  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 
"  But  I  have  seen  it  sinceV 

"  It  arrived,  then,  too  late  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Too  late  for  me,"  she  was  about  to  say,  but  the  words 
died  on  her  lips,  and  she  loft  him  in  his  error  ;  but  when  ha 


296  LAUY-BIRD. 

said,  •wli'ii  emotion,  "  /would  have  trusted  you  tlirougli  years 
of  silence  and  suspense,"  she  exclaimed,  "  0  do  not  speak  to 
me  in  that  way,  Adrien,  remember,  there  are  sufferings  that 
lie  dormant,  there  are  thoughts  that  sleep  and  must  not  be 
awakened.  There  is  a  calmness  that  lasts  as  long  as  memory 
can  be  kept  at  bay.  0  that  I  should  be  thus  speaking  to 
you ! " 

"  Gertrude,  there  can  be  no  peace  in " 

"  Who  spoke  of  peace  ?  Did  I  not  say  calmness?  Do  you 
think  I  ever  dream  of  peace?" 

"  0,  my  God  !  "  Adrien  ejaculated,  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest 
feeling.  '•  This  is  worse  than  I  feared.  Gertrude,  now  we 
must  speak  the  whole  truth  to  each  other,  I  must  know  how 
you  came  to  marry  as  you  did."  In  a  low  but  firm  voice,  she 
answered.  '■  Despairing  of  ever  seeing  you  again,  believing  that 
you  had  abandoned  me,  bewildered  by  the  fear  of  a  marriage 
I  abhorred,  grateful  for  a  love  which  on  that  very  day  was 
revealed  to  me — when  my  mind  was  almost  distracted — I  was 

wrought  upon — persuaded "     Adrien  turned   pale  ;    and 

clenching  his  hand,  uttered  a  word  which  did  not  reach  her 
ears,  and  she  continued,  "  I  have  suffered  not  more,  perhaps, 
than  I  deserve,  but  more  than  you  can  understand.  I  should 
not  have  dared  to  speak  the  truth,  I  should  not  have  shown 
you  the  real  state  of  my  mind,  and  of  my  heart,  if  I  had  not 
felt  that  in  you,  and  in  myself— in  our  past  history — in  our 
present  strange  meeting,  there  was  that  which  would  forbid 
us  from  seeking,  in  this  brief  intercourse,  anything  but  the 
consolation  of  knowing  that  we  have  not  wilfully  been  untrue 
to  each  other.  That  I  have  been  false  to  myself,  unjust  to 
one  whose  great  sin  it  has  been  to  love  me  too  much,  God 
knows  I  confess  ;  but  you  I  have  not  injured.  0  no.  Each 
day  I  live  I  feel  more  deeply,  perhaps,  that  '  He  whose  you 
are,  and  whom  you  serve,' — ay,  I  heard  you  say  those  words 
not  long  ago, — He  has  dealt  mercifully  with  you,  and  broken 
to  pieces,  for  your  sake,  the  worthless  object  of  your  ill-direct- 
ed love." 

"  Gertrude,  you  must  not  say,  you  must  not  feel  this. 
With  both  of  us  He  has  dealt  with  the  severe  kindness  of  a 
father  ;   our  hearts  may  break,  but  we  must  submit  and  adore." 

"  Teach  me,  then,  to  submit ;  teach  me  to  adore  :  you  have 
been  the  angel  with  the  drawn  sword  in  my  path  ;  sheath  it 
if  you  can,  and  show  me  the  way.  Once  before  you  pointed 
to  it ;  it  lay  then  in  a  smooth  and  flowery  road ;  now  it  must 


LADV-BIRD.  297 

be  through  a  narrow  and  thorny  one  ;  but  perhaps  a  light  may 
rise  upon  it.  You  toil  enough  amongst  the  poor  outcasts  of 
this  world's  making,  and  may  have  a  more  arduous  task  to 
perform  now." 

Adrien's  eyes  flashed  witli  a  bright  expression  of  love  and 
of  hope.  "  Gertrude,  I  have  felt,  ever  since  I  first  set  eyes  on 
you — 0  do  not  be  afraid  of  looking  back,  dearest ;  do  not 
shudder  at  the  thoughts  of  what  might  have  been,  but  which 
now  can  never  be.  There,  in  that  first  meeting,  in  our  love,  in 
our  parting,  with  misgivings  but  with  hope,  in  our  irrevocable 
separation, — ay,  I  can  speak  of  it  without  faltering,  though 
God  only  knows  how  hard  a  struggle  it  has  been  to  submit, — 
in  this  our  strange  reunion,  I  see,  I  feel,  I  bless  His  guiding 
hand.  0  Gertrude,  we  shall  not  have  met,  we  shall  not  have 
loved,  we  shall  not  have  suffered  in  vain  ;  and  not  in  vain  have 
gone  through  this  trying  hour,  if  He  deigns  to  use  me  as  His 
instrument  to  re-awaken  in  you,  in  your  strong  will  and  ardent 
spirit,  the  deep  enthusiasm  of  a  real  vocation,  the  one  resolu- 
tion which  masters  every  passion,  and  treads  under  its  feet 
every  sorrow,  every  anguish,  every  discouragement.  He  had  a 
purpose  for  both  of  us  ;  I  know  it,  I  feel  it.  Never  let  us  say, 
even  when  we  suffer  most  acutely,  '  Would  we  had  never  met.' 
/  have  never  done  so,  Gertrude  ! " 

"  Nor  I,"  she  faintly  murmured. 

"  My  dearest — I  may  call  you  so,  for  nothing  on  earth  is 
so  dear  to  me  as  you — my  dearest,  let  us  so  live,  let  us  so  die, 
that  to  all  eternity  we  may  say,  '  Thank  God  that  we  met.' 
Thank  God  that  we  understood  the  meaning  of  our  love,  the 
meaning  of  our  sufferings,  and  recognised  in  them  the  source 
of  higher  fruits  of  virtue  and  of  love  than  happiness  could 
ever  have  yielded.  Since  the  first  day  I  saw  you  something 
impelled  me  to  watch  you,  to  pray  for  you,  to  feel  that  I  was 

to  influence  your  destiny.     Once,  for  a  while "  he  paused, 

there  was  a  swelling  in  his  heart  which  he  could  hardly  sub- 
due, but  mastering  his  emotion  he  went  on,  '•  That  dream 
passed  away  ;  I  saw  not  that  I  had  mistaken  God's  purpose, 
but  the  way  in  which  it  was  to  work,  and  I  hoped  that  in  the 
end  we  should  not  have  met  in  vain.  Now  I  am  sure  of  it. 
Now  a  light  has  flashed  through  the  gloom  ;  now  you  too  will 
draw  courage  and  strength  from  past  and  from  present  sorrow. 
Oh,  Gertrude,  our  two  hearts  are  bruised  in  the  fierce  trial 
we  have  past  and  are  now  passing  through.  Let  each  pang 
that  we  endure  prove  a  blessing  to  others.     Let  innuncrablc 


298  LADY-BIRD. 

good  deeds  and  earnest  efforts  be  the  fruit  of  our  sufferings ; 
and  then  on  the  day  when  every  tear,  every  sigh,  evei-y  cup  of 
cold  water  is  counted,  shall  we  not  say,  if  by  His  infinite 
mercy  we  both  stand  on  His  right  hand,  '  Thank  God  that  we 
met!'" 

Both  were  silent, — both  were  overcome.  Their  hands 
were  joined  in  silence,  and  they  withdrew.  Another  had  been 
near  them,  and  every  word  of  that  conversation  had  been 
heard.  "  It  is  easy  for  them  to  be  resigned,"  Maurice  said  to 
himself,  as  he  tossed  to  and  fro  on  his  narrow  couch  that  night; 
"  but  for  me,  for  me,  who  stand  between  them  and  happiness, 
it  is  too  hard  a  task, — too  dreadful  a  fate.  Well,  it  may  be 
simplified  one  of  these  days, — my  life  may  be  cut  short." 

The  pain  in  his  head  and  in  his  heart  seldom  left  him  now; 
but  still  it  is  wondei-ful  how  people  suffer  and  live  on.  He  saw 
Adrien  the  next  day,  and  they  spoke  kindly  to  each  other. 
Both  subdued  the  feelings  which  would  have  led  them  to  turn 
away  from  the  other  ;  for  Maurice  could  not  look  calmly  upon 
the  man  whom  Gertrude  not  only  had,  but  still,  loved,  nor 
Adrien  on  him  who  had  betraj'cd  his  confidence,  and  hurried 
her  into  a  sinful  and  miserable  marriage.  It  had  been  an  act 
of  heroic  virtue  on  his  part  to  forbear  from  expressing  to  Ger- 
trude his  indignation  at  her  husband's  conduct ;  and  the 
friendly  though  grave  manner  with  which  he  addressed  him  was 
one  of  the  greatest  conquests  over  himself  which  he  had  ever 
achieved. 

At  the  hour  when  the  emigrants  met  on  the  deck,  Maurice 
said  to  Gertrude,  "  You  had  better  not  stay  in  this  close  cabin, 
Lady-Bird.  It  is  a  beautiful  day,  I  believe.  The  sea  is  quite 
calm  ;  there  are  not  many  more  evenings  to  come  before  we 
reach  New  York.     Go  and  breathe  the  fresh  sea  air." 

"  Will  you  come  ?  "  she  said  timidly. 

"  No  ;  I  do  not  feel  inclined  to  move.  Leave  me  that  book 
you  were  reading  this  morning."  She  did  so,  and  arranged 
the  cushions  of  the  couch  for  him.  He  took  her  hand  and 
kissed  it.  She  lingered  a  moment  near  the  door  ;  he  opened 
the  book  and  read  ;  she  went  away,  and  he  closed  it.  Deep 
and  sad  were  his  musings  that  night,  and  once  or  twice  he 
murmured  Mary's  name  ;  and  the  stillness  of  the  sea  was  irk- 
some, and  he  now  dreaded  as  much  as  he  had  wished  that  this 
hated  passage  should  end.  His  manner  to  Gertrude  was  very 
kind  now  ;  those  bursts  of  irritability  which  used  to  recur  so 
frequently  ceased  altogether.     He  wrapped  her  tenderly  in  his 


LADY-BIRD.  299 

own  cloak  when  the  wind  was  cold  ;  he  boi  rowed  books  for  her ; 
and  if  she  was  not  wiill,  he  thought  of  a  variety  of  little  thing>s 
to  relieve  her  ;  but  he  could  not  bear  now  a  smile  from  her. 
Truly  her  smiles  were  very  unlike  what  they  used  to  be.  Per- 
haps he  felt  this.  He  had  ceased  to  be  jealous  ;  he  knew 
everything  now,  and  he  feared  nothing  more.  Hatred  and  re- 
sentment had  all  given  way  to  self-reproach  and  profound 
dejection. 

One  night,  at  that  time,  he  composed  the  following  rambling 
lines,  and  set  them  as  it  were  in  his  own  mind  to  the  murmur 
of  the  waves : 

I  knew  a  noble  goodly  tree  that  lent  my  youth  its  shade, 

To  blight  it  with  insidious  art  was  the  return  I  made. 

I  knew  an  Ivy  brancli  that  clung  with  shelt'ring  love  to  me, 

I  little  thought  that  faithful  bough  would  once  forsaken  be. 

I  knew  a  bright,  a  blooming  flower,  and  gazed  on  it  too  long, 

I  snatched  it  rudely  from  its  stem  and  did  it  grievous  wrong. 

I  loved  them  all,  I  wronged  them  all ;  I  bear  a  heavy  load, 

I  see  no  gleam  of  light  to  cheer  my  .«iad  and  lonely  road. 

If  I  could  die !  but  death  comes  not  to  those  wlio  want  it  most , 

I  snatched  a  moment's  joy, — alas !  I  counted  not  the  cost. 

The  waves  are  whisp'ring  Mary's  name — once,  once,  I  loved  her  well. 

0  Lady-Bird  !  my  broken  flower 

There  the  pencil  fell  from  his  hand,  and  the  unfinished  verses 
on  the  floor  near  the  couch. 

That  night  and  the  following  ones,  Adrien  spoke  to  his 
poor  people,  and  Gertrude  listened,  and  for  a  while  afterwards 
they  talked  together.  As  once  before,  the  fire  that  burned  in 
his  fervent  soul  kindled  a  spark  in  hers.  When  he  spoke  of  a 
life  of  effort  and  of  virtue  she  felt  capable  of  anything ;  as 
long  as  he  stood  by  her  side  she  understood  how  short  was 
this  life,  how  wortliless  was  everything  but  the  prospect  of 
another.  She  learnt  more  and  more  of  the  meaning  of  those 
high  spiritual  truths  which  he  sought  to  impart  to  her  ;  but  to 
learn  is  not  to  feel,  and  knowledge  and  grace  are  as  distinct 
as  the  shadow  and  the  substance,  as  a  dream  and  an  action. 
She  could  not  acquiesce  in  the  sacrifice  of  a  final  separation. 
She  struggled  against  the  acknowledgment  of  its  necessity. 
Her  tongue  never  uttered  a  word,  but  the  deep  impassioned 
language  of  her  eyes  protested  against  it,  when  with  faltering 
accents  he  spoke  of  it.  Yes,  with  faltering  accents,  for  in  his 
heart  also  a  fearful  combat  had  arisen. 

There  is  no  height  of  virtue,  no  strength  of  faith,  no  length 


300  LADY-BIRD. 

of  time  spent  in  continual  advances  in  liollness  and  in  good 
ness,  that  .secure  a  man  against  temptation,  that  place  him 
beyond  the  reach  of  startling  impulses  to  evil.  Adrien  was 
in  danger  during  those  days,  in  which  everything  seemed  to 
combine  against  him.  In  danger  of  self-deceit,  in  danger  of 
mistaking  the  cause  of  that  deep  interest  which  would  have 
made  him  ready  to  lay  down  his  life  for  the  sake  of  her  virtue 
and  her  happiness, — he  saw,  he  felt  his  influence  over  her  ;  a 
long,  if  not  a  final  separation  awaited  them.  He  feared  to  lose 
time — he  returned  too  often  to  her  side.  Every  moment  that 
could  be  snatched  from  duties  of  religion  and  of  charity,  which 
he  never  neglected,  he  devoted  to  her ;  but  did  it  make  him 
less  eloquent  that  the  subjects  which  he  spoke  of  were  those 
which  lend  the  deepest  pathos,  and  inspire  the  most  ardent 
enthusiasm  in  those  who  have  ever  felt  their  influence  and 
understood  their  scope?  Did  it  make  his  pale  face  less  beau- 
tiful in  her  eyes  that  it  had  gained  that  paleness  in  long  night- 
watches  by  the  bed  of  poverty  and  of  sufi'ering?  Did  the 
blessings  that  were  poured  upon  him  every  day  and  every  hour 
by  the  poor  creatures  that  surrounded  him  make  her  admire 
or  love  him  less  ? 

They  stood  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice  and  knew  it  not  ; 
perhaps  while  he  was  lending  her  his  aid  to  scale  the  rocks, 
and  mount  to  the  heights  where  he  longed  to  lead  her,  he  was 
unconsciously  losing  his  own  footing.  Perhaps  she  knew  more 
of  the  secret  perils  of  her  own  heart — she  had  had  more  cause 
to  mistrust  it — but  perhaps  also  she  feared  less  the  first 
approaches  of  evil.  She  had  but  one  care,  but  one  thought, 
but  one  object,  and  she  knew  what  it  was.  There  was  no  self- 
deception  in  her ;  she  gave  way  to  the  unresisted  influence  of 
feelings  that  seemed  too  powerful  to  be  withstood,  that  made 
her  cling  to  his  presence  as  to  a  safeguard  against  the  long 
anguish  she  had  endured,  and  shrank  from  enduring  again. 

They  had  sat  together  in  the  same  spot  where  they  first 
had  met,  on  a  calm  and  lovely  evening  which  had  succeeded  a 
Btormy  day  ;  the  wind  had  been  violently  contrary  till  then, 
now  it  seemed  to  second  man's  wonderful  agent,  and  to  impel 
them  along  the  ocean  with  a  rapidity  that  carried  joy  to  the 
hearts  of  many  weary  and  worn-out  passengers.  Glad  voices 
had  said  that  day,  "  Now  we  shall  soon  arrive;  a  very  few 
days  more,  and  we  shall  be  at  the  end  of  this  tedious  voyage.'' 
"  The  end  of  this  voyage  !  "  Gertrude  had  said  to  herself,  and 
it  was  like  the  announcement  of  the  sentence  of  death  to  the 


LADY-BIRD.  301 

condemned  criminal.  They  had  sat  together  a  long  time  ;  the 
sky  was  pure  and  bright  with  its  thousand  stars,  and  the  moon 
made  its  road  of  light  on  the  waves,  which  were  gently  rising 
And  falling  after  their  recent  agitation,  like  the  sobs  of  a  child 
whose  passion  is  sul)siding.  They  had  spoken  of  their  arri- 
val ;  she  had  asked  if  she  should  see  him  again  when  he 
returned  from  the  settlement  he  was  to  visit.  She  asked  it 
with  a  look  that  thrilled  through  his  heart ;  she  had  turned 
pale  when  he  hesitated  ;  when  he  had  assented  there  was  a 
flash  of  joy  in  her  eyes  wliich  carried  liini  back  to  the  day 
when  he  first  promised  to  go  to  LifiFord  Grange.  All  the  past 
rushed  upon  liim  at  that  moment,  with  a  startling  power.  He 
felt  she  loved  him  as  then,  «io?e  than  then  ;  a  wild  involun- 
tary joy,  mingled  with  a  sensation  of  terror  and  remorse,  shot 
through  his  heart.  He  had  meant  never  to  see  her  again 
after  these  days  of  constrained  intercourse — now  he  had 
agreed  to  do  so.     He  had  done  wrong. 

Few  people  know  what  is  the  awakening  of  that  conscious- 
ness in  those  who  have  in  earnest  lived  a  life  of  continual  self- 
discipline,  who  have  walked  under  the  Almiglity  eye,  till  they 
have  learned  to  shudder  at  the  first  approaches  of  sin.  In  that 
instant  he  was  called  to  the  bedside  of  one  of  the  emigrants 
■who  was  dying,  and  to  that  scene  he  carried  his  wounded  con- 
science, and  his  intense  agitation  ;  but  there  is  that  great  bless- 
ing attending  a  course  such  as  his  had  been,  that  in  the  first 
instance  no  agitation  interferes  with  practical  duty,  so  habit- 
ual has  self-control  become  ;  and  secondly,  that  agitation  never 
can  last  long,  even  though  grief  and  fear,  or  self  reproach,  may 
prevail.  He  soothed  the  mental  agony  of  his  poor  patient, 
even  as  if  he  had  not  been  suffering  himself  He  suggested  to 
him  every  thought  that  could  awaken  contrition,  and  supply  in 
a  case  of  absolute  impossibility  those  spiritual  supports  which 
were  far  out  of  his  reach.  He  saw  him  grow  calm,  and  sink 
by  degrees  into  a  kind  of  sleep,  and  he  remained  by  his  side, 
praying  ardently. 

How  strange  it  is,  how  marvellous  it  seems  sometimes,  that 
there  are  human  beings  who  ?!cre7-pray,  who  do  not  know  what 
it  is  to  send  up  those  cries  for  strength,  for  guidance,  for  res- 
cue,— which  burst  from  other  hearts  with  such  vehemence,  that 
they  never  wield  an  instrument  which  effects  so  much  in  this 
world,  and  beyond  it ! — which,  like  the  trumpets  that  overthrew 
the  walls  of  Jericho,  can  break  down  with  its  feeble  strength 
the  might  of  every  obstacle,  and  the  arms  of  every  foe.     Ha 


302  LADY-BIRD, 

V 

knew,  he  now  saw  the  extent  of  the  abyss  he  had  neared  ;  there 
was  that  which  he  could  hiy  hold  of. — there  was  a  staff  he 
could  grasp,  and  which  has  never  yet  failed  under  the  heaviest 
weight  that  has  been  trusted  to  it.  Strong  in  Ilim  who  is 
ruighty  to  save,  all  his  fears  were  for  her, — her  to  whom 
he  had  once  hoped  to  be  a  guide  and  a  blessing.  She,  in  whom 
he  had  first  awakened  the  energy  of  an  hitherto  dormant  faith  ; 
she  whom  he  had  loved  and  prayed  for  so  long,  so  unceasing- 
ly— was  she  to  be  abandoiiod  to  a  sullen  despair,  an  aimless 
life,  and  a  hopeless  heart  ?  He  prayed  it  might  not  be  so. 
He  accepted  everything,  offered  up  everything  ;  but  asked  that, 
if  possible,  although  he  saw  no  way  to  it,  they  might  part,  not 
as  they  had  parted  that  day, — not  as  they  would  part,  unless 
she  learnt  what  he  could  not,  and  what  none  but  God  could 
teach  her. 

It  did  not  seem  at  that  moment  as  if  the  prayer  were  heard. 
She  was  musing  on  that  last  hour  they  had  spent  together, 
with  no  misgivings  then,  nor  with  any  self-reproa«h.  She  felt 
that  she  could  struggle  no  longer,  that  it  was  in  vain  to  strive 
with  destiny.  She  impiously  murmured,  ''  0,  if  I  must  not 
love  him,  why  did  Heaven  thus  bring  us  together  !  "  and  then 
a  sudden  intense  wish  for  freedom  rushed  like  a  hurricane  over 
her  soul.  It  seemed  to  suggest  thoughts  which  she  dared  not 
frame  in  words.  Why  was  she  bound  by  an  irrevocable  chain  ? 
Why  must  she  be  miserable  ?  Why  had  one  rash  act,  one 
fatal  impulse,  sealed  her  doom  for  ever  ?  "  Until  death  us  do 
part,"  floated  in  her  ears.  Death — death  alone  could  break 
that  chain.  Then  for  an  instant,  then  as  once  before,  a  vision 
of  freedom  passed  before  her,  not  as  a  deliberate  thought, — far, 
far  less  a  hope.  But  she  could  not  escape  the  consciousness 
that  this  dreadful  idea  had  shot  through  her  mind  like  a  dark 
phantom. — '•  If  Ac  were  to  die,  I  should  be  free."  It  found  no 
verbal  utterance  ;  but  the  rapid  mental  protest  against  it  at- 
tested its  existence. 

She  remained  on  the  deck  that  night,  and  then  slowly  sought 
the  cabin,  where  her  husband  was  asleep.  She  sat  down  with 
a  book  in  her  hand,  the  same  book  out  of  which  he  had  been 
reading  by  the  lamp  he  had  left  burning.  His  sleep  was  dis- 
turbed ;  he  spoke  incoherent  words,  and  moved  restlessly  about. 
It  was  late  before  she  lay  down  in  her  berth.  Every  now  and 
then  she  woke  up,  as  he  moaned  and  murmured,  and  once  she 
asked  him  if  he  was  suffering?  He  was  asleep  again,  and  she 
closed  her  eyes  and  the  ship  went  on  its  way,  and  the  houra 


LADY-BIRD.  303 

elapeed,  and  the  morning  dawned,  and  every  one  was  stirring 
within  those  wooden  walls.  Who  knows  what  a  day  may  bring 
forth?  The  sun  shines  on  the  evil  and  on  the  good,  and  tlie 
morning  of  one  day  is  like  the  morning  of  another ;  but  the 
lays  themselves  !  0,  they  are  as  different  sometimes  from  those 
.hat  precede  and  that  follow  them,  as  Earth  is  from  Purgatory 
nd  •t'urgatory  from  Heaven. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


"  Forpve  me  that,  tliou  cniildst  not  lovt^!  it  iiiaj'  be  that  a  tone 
Yet  from  iii_v  luirninir  licart  may  pii'vce  lliroii}.'!]  tliiiic  wlicii  I  am  Rune, 
And  tliou  iicrcliance  mayst  weep  lor  liiin,  on  wlioni  llioii  ne'er  lia.st  Muiled." 

Mks.  Hkmans. 

"  In  lier  elin.stened  .«ou1, 
The  jia.ssion-colonrod  imn!;es  of  life. 
"Which  witli  tlieir  sudden  startling;  llnsh  awoke 
;  So  oft  those  biiridnj;  tears,  liave  passed  away." 


"  Yet  I  was  calm  ;  I  knew  the  time 

My  breast  woidd  thrill  before  thy  look, 
But  now  to  tremlde  were  a  crime ; 

We  met,  and  not  a  nerve  was  sliook." 


Ibid. 


Bteon. 


"When  Maurice  awoke  from  a  troubled  sleep  the  next  day,  tlio 
pain  in  his  head  which  had  been  more  or  less  troubling  him 
since  he  had  embarked  was  more  violent  than  ever ;  his  limbs 
ached,  and  a  feverish  thirst  parched  his  lips.  He  called  Ger- 
trude and  asked  for  some  water.  In  taking  back  the  glass 
from  him  she  felt  that  his  hand  was  burning ;  and  laying  her 
cold  one  on  his  forehead  started  almost  at  the  scorching  heat 
it  found  there.  "  Maurice."  she  gently  said,  "  do  you  feel  ill? 
I  am  sure  you  are  not  well."  He  raised  his  eyes  slowly  to  hers 
and  shook  his  head.  She  made  some  little  arrangements  for 
his  comfort,  and  went  to  get  him  soma  tea.  When  she 
brought  it  back  he  tried  to  eat  a  piece  of  biscuit,  but  could 
not. 

"  Maurice,"  she  again  repeated,  with  a  kind  of  nervous 
anxiety,  "  I  am  sure  you  are  ill.     You  must  see  the  doctor." 

"  The  doctor  !  No  ;  he  will  do  me  no  good,  and  his  rough, 
disagreeable  manner  will  drive  me  wild.  I  will  not  see  him  ; 
open  the  window,  and  let  me  breathe  the  fresh  air,  and  then 
•jome  and  sit  by  me." 


304  LADY-BIRD. 

Sbe  did  so.  There  was  something  peculiar  in  his  manner  ; 
he  had  not  looked  at  her  in  that  way  for  a  long  time,  perhaps 
never  before,  with  a  sort  of  calm  tenderness.  '-'Will  you  read 
something  to  me,  Gertrude,  out  of  this  book  ?  "  He  drew  from 
his  bosom  a  little  book  of  poetry  which  Mary  had  written  out 
for  him.  "  I  should  like  to  hear  you  read  what  she  wrote." 
The  book  opened  at  a  passage  out  of  Longfellow's  "  Psalm  of 
Life."     Her  voice  trembled  as  it  uttered  the  words — 

"  And  our  liearts,  though  stout  aLi(i  brave, 
Still  liko  luuiHoil  drums  arc  beating 
P\im:nii  marches  tu  the  grave." 

Looking  up  she  saw  tliat  his  hand  was  pressed  on  his 
heart  as  if  it  counted  its  pulsations. 

"  Why  do  you  make  me  read  to  you  these  things?"  she 
hastily  exclaimed,  and  rapidly  turned  over  the  pages  of  the 
manuscript. 

"  Your  voice  does  me  good  ;  read  on,  Gertrude,  read  on. 
It  is  the  only  music  I  can  hear  now.  It  sounds  like  an  echo 
of  the  strains  I  once  heard.  Last  night  I  dreamed  that  I  was 
broken  on  the  wheel,  and  that  you  were  singing  to  me  all  the 
time  in  a  low,  soft  voice  that  hushed  my  groans  into  silence. 
Read  on  ;  you  do  not  know  what  your  reading  of  these  verses 
is  to  me.  '  Whose  touch  upon  the  lute  chords  low,  had  stilled 
his  heart  so  oft.'  Were  not  those  lines  in  a  poem  that  you 
used  to  repeat  years  ago,  in  the  Chase — something  about  the 
miglit  of  earthly  love.     Have  you  forgotten  them  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  I  will  not  repeat  them  now ;  they  are  too 
exciting,  and  you  must  try  to  sleep,  you  are  feverish."  "Fever- 
ish !  "  he  re-echoed,  and  a  strange  smile  flitted  over  his  lips 
There  was  a  burning  fever  in  his  veins.  She  read  in  a  low 
voice  some  time,  and  then  she  stopped,  thinking  he  was  asleep. 
She  remembered,  at  that  moment,  how  from  a  boy  he  had 
loved  her.  She  thought  how  changed  he  was,  since  the  time 
that  with  a  cloudless  brow,  and  a  glowing  cheek,  and  a 
sparkling  eye,  he  used  to  make  plans  for  the  future,  and  speak 
of  art  and  fame  with  so  much  feeling  and  fire.  She  looked  at 
his  sunken  check,  his  thin  hand,  the  grey  hairs  that  were 
visible  here  and  there  amongst  his  dark  locks,  and  yet  he  was 
scarcely  twenty-five  years  old.  What  had  blighted  his  youth? 
What  had  checked  his  promising  career  ?  What  had  drawn 
him  away  from  the  tender  and  watchful  love  that  had  been  given 
to  him  in  childhoodj  and  confirmed  in  youth  ? — what,  but  that 


LADY-BJRD.  805 

fatal  passion  ^vliieli  had  outweighed  even  conscience  and  duty, 
and  survived  even  jealousy  and  despair  ? 

He  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  uneasily  about  him. 
"  Lady-Bird,"  he  whispered,  '-you  will  not  hate  me  when  I  am 
dead  ?  "  She  started,  and  laying  her  hand  upon  his  mouth, 
answered  in  a  hurried  manner :  '•  0,  for  God's  sake,  do  not 
talk  in  that  way,  Maurice  !  " 

'■Why  not?  If  you  know  what  a  comfort  it  is  to  me  to 
think  that  I  shall  not  always  stand  between  you  and  happi- 
ness." The  colour  left  her  cheek.  Wliat  could  she  say  ?  I)id 
she  not  deserve  that  lie  should  say  this?  but  it  was  dreadful. 
There  are  ideas  that  pass  through  the  mind  calmly,  but  which 
appear  too  shocking  when  suggested  by  another. 

'■'•  You  malve  me  very  miserable,  Maurice,  speaking  to  nie 
thus."  He  raised  himself  in  his  bed,  and  leaning  upon  his 
arm,  with  his  other  hand  he  clasped  hers,  and  looked  into  her 
eyes  with  those  eyes  whieh  she  had  once  wondered  if  she 
could  wish  never  to  see  again. 

'■  Do  I  make  you  miserable,  Lady-Bird  ?  Yes,  I  know  I 
do — I  know  I  have  done  so.  The  consciousness  of  it  has  been 
my  long  agony.  I  wish  you  could  sympathise  with  me  for 
once  before  I  die — that  once  you  could  hear  without  turning 
away  the  outpouring  of  my  heart.  That  is  why  I  spoke,  just 
now,  of  what  gives  me  consolation." 

"  Not  to  me,  not  to  me  !  This  is  dreadful.  0  Maurice  ! 
Maurice  ! "  She  hid  her  head  in  the  bed-clothes,  and  he  fell 
back  exhausted.  In  a  moment  he  said,  "  I  have  not  been 
trying  to  work  on  your  feelings,  Gertrude.  I  believe  what  I 
say,  or  I  should  not  have  said  it.     I  know  too  well  all  your 

kindness,  your  pity,  and  what  must  be  your "     The  word 

was  unuttered  ;  it  was  hope  he  was  going  to  say,  but  he  felt  it 
conveyed  a  too  cruel  reproach  to  himself  and  to  her ;  but  he 
continued  with  agitation  :  '•  Your  kindness,  I  accept.  I  thank 
you  for  these  tears  ;  but,  0  keep  your  pity — you  should  have 
pitied  me  before,  but  not  now." 

"  Maurice  !  "  she  exclaimed  impetuously,  raising  her  head, 
"  you  must  not — you  shall  not  feel  thus.  I  am  sure  you  are 
not  as  ill  as  you  think  ;  if  you  were  you  ought  to  have  seen 
the  doctor  long  ago.     You  must  see  him  instantly." 

A  wretched  recollection  crossed  her  mind  then  how  she  had 
heard  from  Adrien,  that  this  man  was  unskilful  and  negligent, 
but  there  was  no  help  for  it  now,  and  she  sent  for  him.  It  was 
a  long  while  before  he  came.    There  was  a  great  deal  of  illness 

20 


306  LADY-BIRD. 

in  the  sliip,  and  Adrien  was  accompanying  him  through  the 
infirmary  of  the  lower  deck,  compelling  his  attention  to  every 
case  in  succession,  and  refusing  to  let  him  leave  the  most 
wretched  amongst  them,  to  go  and  attend  the  sick  passenger 
who  had  sent  for  him.  He  little  thought  who  it  was  that  was 
counting  the  minutes,  and  watching  every  sound.  When  he 
came  there  was  little  comfort  to  be  found  in  his  presence.  Ho 
was  one  of  the  worst  specimens  of  that  class  of  men  that  used 
to  be",  and  still  sometimes  are  sent  out  in  emigrant  ships — ■ 
men  who  accept  the  insufficient  and  miserable  pittance  thus 
afi"orded  them,  because  they  have  neither  the  skill  nor  chai'ac- 
ter  with  which  to  succeed  elsewhere.  He  s\iook  his  head,  and 
said  that  Maurice  was  very  ill,  but  not  dangerously  so,  as  far 
as  he  could  see.  He  had  a  great  deal  of  fever,  and  there  had 
been  evidently  previous  depression  of  the  nervous  system 
which  aggravated  the  case.  There  was  acute  pain  in  the 
limbs,  and  continual  thirst.  He  sent  some  medicine,  and 
promised,  if  possible,  to  see  him  again  in  the  evening.  His 
abrupt  and  familiar  manner  had  been  painful  to  them  both. 
He  joked  by  the  bed-side.  If  a  sick-room  is  sometimes  a 
fitting  place  for  jests,  it  certainly  was  not  so  in  this  case. 
When  he  closed  the  door,  Gertrude  bent  over  the  bed  and 
said,  "  You  see.  dear  Maurice,  you  are  not  so  very  ill."  She 
had  never,  since  their  marriage,  called  him  "  dear  Maurice." 
He  knew  it,  and  the  blood  rushed  with  violence  to  his  very 
temples. 

At  the  time  when  she  usually  went  upon  the  deck  he 
showed  her  the  watch,  and  pointed  to  the  hour.  "  No,  no,  not 
to-night,"  she  said,  "  I  would  not  on  any  account  leave  you, 
Maurice.  I  won't,"  she  added,  with  one  of  her  old  smiles,  as 
he  murmured  that  he  wished  her  to  go.  "  Well,  I  will  let  you 
stay — you  are  right,  I  think,  not  to  leave  me.  I  feel  very 
strangely  at  times,  and  I  fancy  the  fever  is  increasing.  There, 
sit  down  opposite  to  me,  and  put  the  lamp  on  that  side,  so  that 
the  light  may  fall  upon  you.      Is  the  sea  very  rough  to-night?  " 

"  No  ;  it  is  quite  calm.  I  see  from  hei'c  the  moon  shining 
on  the  waves." 

"  Full  many  a  fathom  deep." 

"  What  are  you  saying?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I  was  thinking  of  a  funeral  at  sea  which 
I  once  saw  a  long  time  ago.  13ut  there  was  a  priest  on  board. 
I  am  glad  I  went  to  see  Mary  before  I  came  away.  You  will 
be  always  kind  to  Mary,  won't -you^  Gertrude?"     His  eyes 


LADY-BIRD.  307 

olosod.  and  she  felt  a  great  diflSculty  in  sitting  quietly  on,  lis- 
tening to  the  broken  sentences  that  dropped  from  his  lips. 

He  was  in  that  state  between  waking  and  dreaming  in 
which  the  thoughts  seem  more  busy  with  the  past  than  with  the 
present.  There  is  always  something  awful  in  tlie  ramblings 
of  the  mind,  even  when  no  secret  sufieriugs  are  disclosed  ;  but 
when  there  are,  and  when  the  listener  is  and  has  been  the 
cause  or  the  sharer  of  such  griefs,  those  long  and  silent  watches 
are  hard  to  bear.  Gertrude  tried  to  read,  tried  not  to  think. 
She  sought  to  stifle  memory,  to  look  neither  backward  nor 
forward,  to  banish  from  her  mind  all  thought  but  of  the  pres- 
ent moment ;  the  relief  that  could  be  given,  the  kind  word 
that  could  be  spoken.  But  it  would  not  do.  Back  came  upon 
her  the  recollections  of  her  mother's  death,  of  all  that  had  ac- 
companied and  followed  it.  Her  dying  form  seemed  stretched 
before  her  on  that  bed  where  Maurice  was  lying,  and  she 
gazed  on  his  pale  face  with  mingled  sensations  of  grief  and 
fear. 

The  hours  went  by,  and  still  the  doctor  came  not.  It 
grew  very  late,  and  he  became  gradually  worse.  He  was  not 
light-headed  now  ;  but  the  pain  was  increasing,  and  his  breath- 
ing was  oppressed.  She  felt  alarmed,  but  was  afraid  of  leaving 
him  to  call  for  assistance.  Hurrying  out  for  an  instant  she 
caught  sight  of  one  of  the  stewards  and  begged  he  would  find 
the  doctor,  and  entreat  him  to  come  directly.  When  she  re- 
turned, Maurice  called  her  in  a  low  voice  and  made  her  sit 
down  close  to  his  pillow.  "  Now  listen  to  me,  Lady-Bird,  for 
I  can  speak  now,  and  perhaps  for  the  last  time  I  call  you  by 
that  name.  Forgive  me  all  I  have  ever  made  you  suifer.  It 
would  have  been  better  for  you  that  I  had  never  been  born ; 
but  if  I  die  now,  then  my  life  will  not  have  done  you  much 
harm  :  will  it,  Gertrude  ?  You  are  very  young  still,  and  you 
may  be  happy  a  long  time.  You  will  forgive  me,  when  you 
are  happy,  for  having  loved  too  much  during  my  short  life, — 
and  that  my  love  made  me  selfish,  and  wicked,  and  mad.  Do 
not  weep,  Lady-Bird — do  not  hide  your  face  from  me.  Will 
you  kiss  me  once?  "  She  passed  her  arm  round  his  neck,  and 
pressed  upon  his  fevered  lips  a  kiss  such  as  he  had  dreamt  of, 
but  never  felt  before.  A  sudden  faintuess  came  over  him,  he 
gasped  for  breath — '•  One  of  the  draughts — give  it  me  quick 
— I  am  choking."*  Her  eyes  blinded  with  tears,  a  mist  before 
her  sight,  ?he  poured  out  the  medicine  into  a  glass,  and  gave 
it  him.  He  swallowed  it,  and  exclaimed,  "  How  strangely  it 
tastes  ! " 


308  ♦■  lady-bir;5. 

What  fiorrible  vision  has  passed  before  her?  What  sud- 
den terror  lias  made  her  cheek  livid,  as  she  kneels  by  the  lamp 
and  reads  the  label  on  that  empty  bottle.  "  Laudaniuu,  Poison." 
There  is  a  miraculous  strength  in  fear  and  in  anguish,  for  she 
neither  staggered  nor  fainted,  but  rushing  wildly  to  tne  door, 
she  called  out  in  a  tone  of  such  agony  for  the  doctor,  that  two 
or  three  persons  started  up  at  once  out  of  their  beds  and  ran 
for  him.  It  was  at  the  dead  of  night,  and  some  awoke  in 
their  cabins  and  heard  that  scream,  and  thought  it  was  the  cry 
of  a  drowning  wretch.  She  sat  by  the  narrow  bed,  and  put 
his  head  on  her  breast,  and  gazed  upon  it,  as  if  her  eyes  had 
turned  to  stone  and  her  brain  to  fire.  "  If  he  were  to  die  I 
should  be  free."  Is  there  a  fiend  in  hell  cruel  enough  to 
remind  her  in  that  hour  of  those  words,  which  she  had  trem- 
bled at  yesterday,  and  which  to-day  resemble  the  despairing 
cry  of  the  condemned  when  their  sentence  is  pronounced.  It 
was  an  appalling  sight,  that  visage  of  hers  bent  over  his,  but 
so  placed  that  he  could  not  see  it.  He  complains  of  strange 
sensations,  and  her  heart  dies  within  her,  but  she  speaks 
calmly,  for  she  possesses  a  power  of  endurance  which  has 
never  yet  been  called  forth.  She  feels  that  if  he  should  die, 
the  ceaseless  anguish  of  remorse  on  earth  at  least  will  be  her 
portion  ;  but  while  there  is  life  there  is  hope,  and  God's  mercy 
is  immense,  as  boundless  as  her  despair. 

The  doctor  came,  disturbed,  angry;  many  are  ill  and 
dying  at  once  in  that  miserable  ship,  and  they  have  been 
clamouring  for  him  all  night.  '•  Mr.  Redmond  can't  be  much 
worse  than  when  he  saw  him  last."  She  has  taken  the  bottle 
and  placed  herself  between  him  and  tlie  bed.  and  she  whispers 
in  his  ear,  "  I  gave  him   tliatP      He  starts  back  and  mutters 

an  oath,  "  Then,  by  G ,  it's  all  over  with  him."     She  does 

not  faint,  but  wrings  her-  hands  and  says,  "  Try,  try  to  save 
him,  do  what  you  can  ;  "  and  then  she  stands  by  his  side 
while  he  employs  all  the  means  common  in  such  cases,  all  the 
expedients  which  ca,n  be  resorted  to  at  such  a  moment,  and  in 
breathless  silence  watches  his  every  movement  with  agonizing 
anxiety.  "  I  can  do  no  more,"  he  said  at  last,  "  and  I  cannot 
stay  any  longer ;  I  am  wanted  elsewhere.  You  must  keep 
him  awake  if  you  can,  it  all  depends  upon  that:  any  way  you 
can,  talk  to  him,  rouse  him.  I  must  go."  She  seized  his  arm, 
and  with  a  look  that  startled  even  his  stolid  natuie,  she  said, 

"  Tell  Adrien  d'Arberg  to  come  here  this  instant.  Tell 
him  Maurice  Redmond  is  dying,  and  that  it  is  his  wife  that 


LADY-BIRD.  309 

lias  klllrid  him."  She  knelt  before  her  husband,  she  d'.d  not 
now  hide  her  face  from  him,  she  spoke  to  him  with  a  voice,  she 
looked  at  him  with  eyes,  which  seemed  to  rouse  him  from  the 
growing  stupor  that  was  invading  his  senses.  She  called  to 
him  aloud, and  raised  his  hands  in  hers  and  convulsively  pressed 
them. 

The  door  opened,  and  Adrien  was  by  her  side,  pale,  firm, 
and  composed.  She  murmured  without  looking  towards  him, 
"  What  will  become  of  me,  if  he  dies  !  "  Maurice's  eyes  closed, 
and  he  no  longer  seemed  to  hear  or  to  feel.  She  turned  then 
and  gave  Adrien  a  look  of  such  dreadful  despair,  that  he  turn- 
ed still  paler  than  before.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
and  said.  ''  Gertrude,  pray,  pray  witli  all  the  strength  of  your 
despair,  and  let  me  watch  by  his  side.  This  night  we  shall 
spend  together,  and  then  whatever  God  ordains.  Whatever 
happens " 

''We  part  forever,"  she  slowly  uttered,  and  he  said, 
"  Amen.''' 

•'  This  is  a  vow,"  she  exclaimed. 

"  A(i  solemn  as  this  hour,"  he  replied.  "  Now  go  and  pray, 
that  God  may  have  mercy  on  you  and  on  me." 

Then,  Adrien  strove  with  all  his  strength,  with  all  his  skill, 
with  rjl  the  resources  of  intelligence  and  experience.  He  sup- 
plied the  doctor's  place,  and  with  all  the  energy  of  his  calm  but 
intense  volition  sought  to  recall  animation  in  that  sinkingfram». 
to  struggle  with  the  fatal  sleep  that  was  invading  it.  He  felt 
strong  with  an  almost  supernatural  strength  ;  he  felt  that  the 
safety  of  an  immortal  soul  might  be,  that  the  future  peace  or 
the  unspeakable  misery  of  another  was  at  stake  ;  and  he  wres- 
tled there  with  the  mortal  enemy,  as  Jacob  wrestled  with  the 
Angel  in  the  mysterious  hour  of  mystical  strife  and  dearly 
won  victory.  He  offered  up  his  whole  existence  on  that  day, 
in  exchange  for  the  boon  he  passionately  implored.  Life  for 
him,  grace  for  her,  was  the  cry  of  his  deep  soul ;  for  himself, 
the  cross,  the  desert's  scorching  air,  the  missionary's  path,  or 
the  martyr's  grave. 

Human  efforts,  at  times,  are  extraordinarily  blessed. 
There  is  a  force  in  prayer, — there  is  a  strength  in  sacrifice, 
— there  are  mysteries  in  grace, — there  are  strange  dealings 
with  men's  souls, — marvellous  changes  in  destinies,  and  won- 
derful triumphs  of  faith.  Maurice's  life  hung  on  a  thread  that 
night  and  all  the  while  Gertrude  prayed  some  of  those  wordless 
prayers, — those    cries  of  the  heart  which  none  but  God  can 


810  LADY-BIRD. 

hear  :  confessed  her  sins  with  agonizing  contrition,  and,  when 
her  brain  grew  sick  with  terror  and  her  soul  waxed  faint  with' 
in  her,  convulsively  called  upon  her  who  prays  for  us  to  JesuS; 
when  we  can  no  longer  pray  for  ourselves.  He  who  had  ever 
been  in  his  father's  house,  and  she  who  was  returning  to  it  in 
that  hour,  both  knelt  by  that  bedside.  Each  made  a  promise, 
each  recorded  a  vow,  and  in  the  fiery  trial  of  that  night  a  new 
heart  was  given  her.  0,  if  in  His  mercy  God  would  cancel 
the  sentence  of  death  which  was  writing  upon  that  face  its  un- 
mistakeable  character, — if  He  would  give  back  to  her  keeping 
that  loving  heart  which  had  well  nigh  ceased  to  beat,  and 
open  again  those  eyes  which  else  would  haunt  her  to  the 
grave. — would  not  life  be  too  short  for  gratitude,  and  earth  not 
•wide  enough  for  her  zeal?  What  were  now  past  suffer- 
ings in  her  sight  7  Notlmtg  to  the  pangs  she  was  now  en- 
during,— like  the  tears  of  childhood  by  the  anguish  of  manhood ! 
She  vowed  to  love  her  husband.  0,  she  loved  him  already. 
A  single  hair  of  his  head  had  grown  precious  to  her  heart,  and 
her  burning  lips  were  pressed  to  his  cold  hands  with  feelings 
that  hope  and  joy  could  never  give.  Truly  as  Adinen  was 
striving  and  watching  by  her  side  that  livelong  night,  sharing 
and  mastering  its  terrors  and  its  anguish,  she  felt  that  an 
angel  had  come  to  her  aid  ;  but  earthly  passion  passed  away, 
even  then,  from  her  soul,  and  never  from  that  day  forth  did 
she  think  of  him  but  as  one  of  those  ministering  spirits  who 
lead  the  way  to  Heaven,  but  are  not  destined  to  walk  the  com- 
mon paths  of  life  by  our  side.  Maurice  opened  his  eyes  and 
saw  them  both  kneeling  by  him.  His  brain  was  dizzy,  and  he 
gazed  strangely  upcn  them.  Nothing  perhaps  could  have 
roused  him  from  that  deadly  stupor  so  powerfully  as  their  pre- 
sence, and  they  spoke  to  him  in  words  that  recalled  his  soul 
from  the  confines  of  death.  She  threw  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  she  pressed  him  to  her  heart,  she  called  him  her  husband, 
and  told  him  she  loved  him.  He  sat  up  in  his  bed  and  point- 
ed to  Adrien.  "  Once,  but  not  now,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
''  Believe  me,  dear  Maurice,  by  all  I  have  endured  this  night, 
— by  all  we  have  suffered  since  our  marriage,  you  may  believe 
me  now.  My  love  is  yours  henceforward — yours  alone.  I 
gave  it  you,  Maurice,  in  an  awful  hour,  and  one  of  the  most 
dreadful  trials  that  ever  was  sent  to  crush  a  stubborn  spirit 
has  not  been  sent  in  vain."  He  read  in  her  eyes  the  truth  of 
those  words  and  the  rush  of  conflicting  feelings  they  awakened 
waa   almost  too  much  for  his  enfeebled  frame.     There   were 


LAnT-BlUTJ.  811 

still  alternations  of  hope  and  of  fear  with  regard  to  his  health, 
but  from  that  hour  he  rallied.  The  fever  had  been  subdued 
through  Ihe  very  means  which  had  brouglit  him  to  the  verge 
of  death,  but  from  whicli  he  had  so  miraculously  recovered. 

When  he  became  strong  enough  to  converse  he  s(nit  for 
Adrien,  and  wished  to  see  him  alone.  He  told  him  all  that 
he  had  only  suspected  before.  He  spoke  with  detestation  of 
his  own  conduct,  and  implored  his  forgiveness  for  the  breach 
of  trust  he  had  been  guilty  of  in  his  regard  ;  and  he  whom  he 
had  so  much  injured  heard  that  humble  confession,  and  sooth- 
ed the  bitterness  of  self-accusation  with  all  the  tender  cliarity 
of  one  who  had  ceased  to  feel  anything  as  keenly  as  the  offence 
which  that  sin  had  been  against  the  majesty  of  the  Most  High. 
Maurice  was  soon  able  to  rise  from  the  bed  of  suffering,  of 
death,  and  of  deliverance.  The  day  before  the  vessel  reached 
New  York,  he  earnestly  entreated  to  be  carried  on  deck,  and 
pointed  to  the  place  where  he  had  once  suffered  so  much,  and 
he  asked  Gertrude  to  sit  there  with  him.  She  came,  look- 
ing pale  and  worn,  but  serene  as  a  summer  evening  after  a 
violent  storm.  The  brightness  of  her  eyes  was  not  quenched  ; 
but  it  was  a  different  light  shining  through  them  than  had 
ever  beamed  in  them  before.  An  unspeakable  peace  was 
reigning  in  her  soul,  and  hovering  over  her  every  moment. 
She  looked  like  one  who  "  Had  been  she  knew  not  where,  and 
seen  what  she  could  not  declare."  She  Jiad  verily  gazed  into 
the  abyss,  and  stood  on  the  brink  of  an  awful  chasm,  and  now 
her  feet  were  on  the  rock.  She  looked  up  to  Heaven  with  un- 
utterable thankfulness,  and  the  eyes  that  were  raised  in  ador- 
ing gratitude  fell  tenderly  on  him  who  from  the  very  jaws  of 
death  had  been  won  back  '•  by  the  force  of  prayer." 

She  had  not  much  to  learn  in  the  way  she  was  now  begin- 
ning to  tread.  She  had  seen  it,  that  way,  from  her  childhood 
up.  The  seed  had  been  sown  long  ago,  but  it  had  withered 
away  for  lack  of  moisture.  No  gentle  showers  could  have 
pierced  the  hard  surface,  no  light  wind  could  bow  down  that 
indomitable  will ;  therefore  it  was  that  God,  who  had  marked 
her  for  his  own,  had  made  all  his  waves  pass  over  her ;  and 
not  in  vain  had  this  last  and  tremendous  storm  well  nigh  over- 
whelmed her.  She  knew  it — she  felt  it ;  her  past  life  now  rose 
before  her  as  a  miracle  of  mercy,  a  prodigy  of  love.  She  re- 
membered her  kind  and  stern  old  instructor's  words — "  If  light 
sufferings  are  not  enough  to  bring  you  to  His  feet,  God  will 
iu  His  mercy  send  you  some  of  those  strange  trials  which  break 


312  LADY-BIRD. 

what  would  not  bcud,  and  crush  what  would  not  yield."  But 
He  had  not  crushed  her — no  ;  He  had  bowed  her  down  under 
His  Almighty  hand,  and  showed  her  in  one  horrible  hour  what 
His  wratli  can  do  ;  and  then  His  saving  hand  was  stretched 
out,  and  she  stood  on  the  shore,  strong  and  erect  with  the 
strength  He  had  given  her,  with  the  energy  He  had  implanted 
in  her. 

When   the   hour  approached  for  the  last  meeting  of  the 
emigrants  on  deck,  for  the  last  words  that  Adrien  was  to  ad- 
dress to  them,  Maurice  turned  to  her  and  said  with  emotion, 
"Will  you  stay  or  go?" 

"  Stay,  if  you  like  it,"  she  answered,  with  perfect  serenity, 
"  He  saved  my  life,  Grertrude,  that  night,  did  he  not  1 " 
'•And  more,  far  more   than   my  life,"  she  answered,  and 
drew   closer  to  his  side  ;    but  he  murmured   as   she  did  so, 
•'  Would  to  God  I  had  died." 

Steadily  Gertrude  gazed  on  Adrien,  as  he  advanced  to  his 
accustomed  place.  She  breathed  an  inward  thanksgiving 
that  her  heart  did  not  throb  wildly  as  it  used  to  do  at  his  ap- 
proach. She  felt  astonished  at  what  is  granted  to  those  who 
surrender  themselves  wholly  into  His  care  who  can  rule  the 
waves  and  subdue  the  storm.  She  pressed  her  husband's 
hand  in  hers  and  said,  '•  May  God  bless  and  reward  him, 
Maurice,"  and  he  fervently  uttered,  '"Amen."  That  Amen  re- 
called to  her  the  solemn  one  pronounced  not  long  ago  by 
those  lips  on  which  she  had  once  hung  with  all  but  idolatrous 
worship.  He  spoke,  and  she  listened  calmly.  He  gave  a  few 
plain  practical  instructions,  a  few  kind  words  of  advice  to  his 
poor  fellow-passengers — to  tliose  especially  whom  he  was  to 
lose  sight  of  the  next  day,  perhaps  never  to  meet  on  earth 
again.  But  his  voice  did  not  falter,  nor  did  her  check  blanch. 
When  the  words  "Farewell,  and  God  Almighty  be  with  you, 
and  bless  you,  and  guide  you  wherever  you  go,  and  send  his 
angels  to  bring  you  on  your  way,"  were  pronounced,  she  bent  her 
head  as  if  to  receive  his  blessing.  When  he  said,  "Pray  for 
me,  my  friends  ;  pray  for  one  to  whom  great  mercy  has  been 
shown  ;  pray  that  his  long  delays  in  the  upward  path  may  be 
fovgiven,  and  that  while  striving  for  other  nien'.s  souls  he  may 
save  his  own,"  she  joined  her  hands  and  prayed  that  in  Heaven 
they  might  meet ;  and  the  few  tears  she  shed,  and  v/hich  fell 
on  Maurice's  hand,  were  as  pure  as  the  source  from  which  they 
flowed.  There  was  no  passion  in  that  grief,  no  bitterness  in 
that  parting. 


LADY-BIRD.  313 

When  the  crowd  dispersed,  Adricn  came  up  to  them  and 
held  out  a  hand  to  each.  Maurice  was  dreadfully  overcome. 
She  wept  softly  and  silently.  "  I  leave  in  a  boat  early  to- 
morrow," he  said.  '•  So  now  we  part,  and  I  know  I  carry 
away  with  me  your  kind  wishes  ;   I  reckon  on  your  prayers." 

"0  Adrien !  Adrien!"  Maurice  exclaimed.  "Would 
you  had  ever  reproached  me." 

'•  Hush,  hush,  dear  Maurice,"  he  rejoined  ;  "  we  have  all 
three  learned  a  deep  lesson — the  one  lesson  of  life  ;  hencefor- 
ward we  have  to  practise  it.  By  Heaven's  immense  and  un- 
deserved mercy  we  have  done  no  fatal  injury  to  each  other, 
though  we  have  all  more  or  less  sinned  jftid  been  near  to  great 
dangers ;  we  have  not  any  of  us  ruined  or  perverted  a  human 
soul,  and  that  is  a  priceless  blessing — we  feel  it  in  this  part- 
ing hour :  we  have  all  suffered,  and  it  has  wrought  good  in  us 
all ;  has  it  not,  dear  friend  1  You,  who  have  been  on  the 
brink  of  tlie  grave,  and  you," — his  voice  faltered  a  little  as  he 
addressed  himself  to  Gertrude — "  who  won  back  his  life  by 
your  prayers,  arc  bound  by  a  double  tie ;  and  God's  claims 
upon  you  both  are  twofold  since  that  day." 

"  Do  not  take  leave  of  us  thus,  dear,  dear  Adrien,"  Maurice 
exclaiiaed.  "  Do  not  speak  as  if  we  were  not  to  meet  again 
for  years." 

"  God  bless  you  both  for  ever  !"  he  answered,  and  hastily 
moved  away. 

Gertrude  hid  her  face  on  her  husband's  shoulder,  and  both 
for  a  few  minutes  wept  together.  She  was  the  first  to  dry  her 
tears,  and  when  he  raised  his  eyes  to  hers  there  was  not  a 
cloud  on  her  brow. 


314  LADY-BIRD. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"  Be  it  enough 
At  once  to  gladden  and  to  solemnise 
My  lonely  lite,  iC  for  thine  altar  here, 
In  the  dread  temple  of  the  wilderness, 
By  prayer  and  toil  and  watching  I  may  win 
The  offering  of  one  heart,  one  human  heart — 
Bleeding,  repenting,  loving." 

MbS.  UEMANIk 

"  I  stand  upon  the  tlire.shold  stone 

Of  my  ancestral  hall ; 
I  hear  iify  native  river  moan, 

I  sec  the  night  o'er  my  iild  forest  fall 
I  look  round  on  the  darkening  vale 

That  saw  my  childhood's  jilays; 
The  lone  wind  in  its  rising  wail 

Has  n  strange  tone;  a  voice  of  other  days — 
But  I  must  rule  my  swelling  breath." 

lUd. 

The  shades  of  evening  k-ad  fallen,  and  there  was  silence  in 
the  ship ;  Maurice  and  Gertrude  had  retired  into  their  cabin. 
Adricu  was,  for  the  last  time,  sleeping  alongside  those  towards 
whom  his  labour  of  love  was  now  accomplished.  The  moon 
was  just  rising  in  a  cloudless  sky,  and  the  vessel  was  steadily 
and  rapidly  advancing  on  its  course.  Most  of  the  passengers 
had  been  rejoicing  that  on  the  morrow  they  were  to  land,  and 
begin  a  new  existence  in  the  New  World  they  had  sought. 
There  had  been  much  merriment  at  the  Oivening  meal,  where, 
for  the  last  time,  the  same  company  had  met.  They  were 
looking  forward  to  the  future  with  eagerness  ;  but  some  few 
of  tiieui  felt  a  regret  at  leaving  the  semblance  of  a  home  which 
that  huge  ship  had  presented.  Many  kind  words  had  been 
spoken,  and  farewells  exchanged.  Land  would  soon  be  in 
sight ;  by  the  time  of  sunrise  next  day  their  eyes  would  be- 
hold it.  This  was  probably  the  last  thought  of  those  v/ho 
went  to  sleep  on  board  the  brave  ship  that  night. 

It  glided  along,  and  the  wind  was  in  its  favour.  The 
watchers  saw  the  lights  gleaming  along  the  coast.  The  sleep- 
ers dreamt  of  the  past — the  sleepless  of  the  future.  No  un- 
wonted sounds  stirred  the  silent  air — no  presentiment  of  evil 
disturbed  that  repose.  But  suddenly  through  the  vast  ship 
there  ran  a  word,  at  which  the  watchers  started  as  one  man, 
the  sleepers  awoke,  the  boldest  trembled,  and  the  reckless 
shuddered.  "At  midnight  a  cry  arose — ""The  ship  is  on 
fire  !  "  and   from  each  one    that  heard    it   there  came  a  cry,  a 


LADY-BIRD.  31   i 

groan,  or  a  sigh,  such  as  the  hearts  of  men  send  forth  when 
death  is  at  their  door.  Then  it  was  that  they  showed  of  what 
metal  they  were  made.  There  was  no  time  for  thought,  or 
for  prayer,  save  a  short,  liurricd  one  for  mercy  and  aid.  The 
word  of  command  was  given,  the  bf)ats  lowered,  the  passengers 
marshalled ;  the  sea  was  calm,  and  the  heavens  serene.  The 
sailors  were  brave,  and  the  captain  firm  ;  but  from  the  upper 
and  lower  decks  there  arose  a  sound  more  awful  than  the  rag- 
ing of  the  waves,  more  appalling  than  the  crash  of  thunder  ; 
the  confusion,  the  strife,  the  rushing  to  and  fro,  the  shouts 
and  the  prayers,  the  curses  and  the  groans,  grew  with  the  ad- 
vancing flames,  and  rose  with  the  clouds  of  enveloping  smoke. 

There  was  one  in  that  moment  whose  only  thought  was  his 
wife,  who,  pale  and  motionless,  was  standing  by  his  side,  in 
silence  preparing  her  soul  to  meet  its  Judge.  But  that  hour 
was  not  come ;  for  their  turn  is  arrived,  and  she  is  placed  in 
tlie  first  boat,  and  her  husband  is  in  it  too.  The  land  is  near, 
and  will  soon  be  gained.  There  is  a  mist  before  her  sight  ; 
but  her  eyes  are  fixed  in  one  direction,  her  hands  clasped  to- 
gether, and  her  lips  moving  in  prayer.  They  stand  on  the 
shore,  and  a  crowd  gathers  round  them.  Tlie  boats  are  put- 
ting out  again  ;  women  and  children  are  weeping  and  wailing, 
and  there  are  breathless  supplications  and  lond  cries  from  some, 
and  a  silence  deeper  than  death  in  others,  as  they  watch  the 
blazing  vessel,  and  by  the  lurid  liglit  it  throws  on  the  water 
are  striving  to  discern  the  forms  which  the  boats  are  conveying. 

Gertrude  is  leaning  on  the  edge  of  a  narrow  pier,  and  Mau- 
rice is  by  her  side.  They  do  not  speak  to  each  other,  but 
their  eyes  and  their  thoughts  and  their  fears  are  in  unison; 
for  they  know  that  Adrien  will  be  the  last  to  leave  tliat  burn- 
ing wreck  while  one  hunurn  soul  is  in  danger  of  perishing 
there.  Once  more  the  boats  are  gone  back  for  those  who  tar- 
ried behind,  and  there  runs  a  murmur  through  the  crowd,  as 
they  rush  forward  to  the  brink  of  the  waves — •  This  is  the 
last  time  they  can  approach  it ;  they  cannot  save  them  all." 
Gertrude  shuddered,  and  ceased  to  look.  She  laid  her  head 
upon  the  stonewall  on  which  she  was  leaning,  and  a  trembling 
came  over  her;  for  the  hands  were  few.  and  the  sliip  burning 
now  with  uncontrollalilo  rapidity,  the  fhinies  wro  moniiting  to 
tlie  sky.  and  a  faint  dis^tant  shout  of  dcspaii' — the  dying  cry 
of  expiring  hope — was  wafted  by  the  wind  to  those  listening 
straining  ears.  She  turned  round  and  looked  v/ildly  around 
her,  as  if  to  ask  for  help,  where  no  help  could  be  given.     Mau- 


816  LADY-BIRD. 

rice  was  gone.  He  could  brook  it  no  longer.  Adrien  must 
not  die.  and  he  live  to  see  it. 

There  was  a  small  shattered  boat,  which  had  been  left 
aside  until  then,  as  too  unsafe  for  use.  He  has  commended 
himself  to  God,  and  called  upon  Mary  ;  and  in  that  little  bark 
he  makes  for  the  scene  of  danger  and  death.  He  rows  for  the 
life  of  his  friend ;  he  nears  the  vessel ;  he  reaches  it  at  last. 
He  pushes  alongside  the  last  boat  that  is  leaving  it,  and  with 
his  whole  remaining  sti-ength  he  calls  on  Adrien.  He  is  there  j 
his  tall  form  conspicuous  in  the  light  that  illumines  the  ter- 
rific scene, — a  child  in  his  arms,  and  another  in  his  hand.  The 
mother  had  been  thrust  into  the  boat  that  was  departing,  and 
with  wild  gestures  was  imploring  him,  whom  in  her  distrac- 
tion she  fancied  was  an  angel,  to  restore  them  to  her  arms. 
In  an  instant  he  perceived  the  little  bark  beneath  ;  and  spring- 
ing into  it  at  once,  with  the  children  he  had  saved  from  the 
flames,  he  took  the  oars  from  Maurice,  who  fell  back  exhaust- 
ed. The  boat  was  leaking,  the  surge  was  dangerous,  the  chil- 
dren scared  ;  not  a  word  was  spoken ;  there  was  no  sound  but 
the  stroke  of  the  oars,  now  wielded  by  a  powerful  arm. 

The  sun  was  just  rising  on  that  scene  of  horror  and  of 
mercy.  When  Gertrude  at  the  edge  of  the  waves  met  that 
bark  as  it  landed,  Maurice  stept  on  to  the  shore,  went  towards 
her,  and  murmured,  "  He  is  saved  ;"  then  leaning  upon  her 
arm,  he  fainted.  She  uttered  a  short  cry,  and  in  an  instant 
Adrien  was  by  her  side,  and  both  saw  at  once  what  had  hap- 
pened.    Maurice  had  broken  a  blood-vessel. 

In  the  small  inn  of  an  American  village  Gertrude  sat  by 
the  bedside  of  one  who  had  greatly  sinned  and  deeply  suifcr- 
ed. — her  dying  and  repenting  husband.  A  priest  from  a 
neighbouring  mission  has  been  with  him,  received  his  confes- 
sion, and  administered  the  last  sacraments  of  the  Church. 
Adrien  was  watching  in  the  next  room.  There  was  a  calm 
and  beautiful  expression  on  Maurice's  face  ;  he  was  not  merely 
resigned,  but  willing  to  die.  That  God  should  have  granted 
him  such  a  blessing  as  to  give  his  life  for  the  friend  he  had 
injured,  and  at  one  time  hated,  struck  him  with  a  sense  of 
grateful  astonishment.  Gertrude's  kindness,  the  tenderness 
of  her  voice  and  of  her  looks,  which  were  inexpressibly  sooth- 
ing to  him  now.  would  not  liave  been  sufficient  to  allay  the 
torments  of  self-reproach  under  diiferent  circumstances.  They 
miglit  even  have  awakened  it  more  keenly  than  indifference. 
During  the   last   few  days  he  had  reviewed  the  past  with  the 


LADY-BIKD  31  7 

most  intense  contrition,  and,  though  he  had  resigned  himself 
to  live  as  a  just  expiation  and  a  continual  atonement,  death 
was  to  him  the  liighest  boon  that  could  have  been  granted  to 
his  weary  and  repentant  spirit.  He  distrusted  his  own 
strength  for  the  long  journey  of  life,  and  blessed  the  merciful 
God  that  was  v/ithdrawing  him  from  its  snares  and  its  perils. 

He  was  capable  of  an  heroic  action,  and  it  had  been  given 
to  him  to  perform  it.  In  deep  humility  he  felt,  "  Lord,  now 
let  thy  servant  depart  in  peace,"  for  the  peace  of  the  absolved, 
of  the  pardoned,  was  his.  The  faith  which  had  never  been 
effaced  from  his  soul  was  now  again  as  bright  and  fervent  as 
ever.  His  mind — long  stored  with  images  of  beauty  and 
dreams  of  harmony — readily  turned  to  the  vision  of  Heaven. 
He  sent  for  Adrien,  and  gazed  upon  him  with  an  unutterable 
expression,  which  was  answered  by  these  words,  '•  But  for  you, 
dear  friend,  my  earthly  task  would  be  over;  you  leave  me  to 
labour,  and  arc  going  home  early."  A  change  came  over  his 
face,  and  detaining  him  hy  the  hand  he  called  Gertrude,  who 
had  withdrawn  when  Adrien  came  in.  They  never  stayed  with 
hini  together,  but  while  one  was  watching  him  the  other  knelt 
in  the  next  room.  But  now.  he  wished  them  both  to  remain. 
He  made  her  stand  on  one  side  of  the  bed,  and  him  on  the 
other,  and  gave  a  hand  to  each.  Then  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
her  and  said, 

"  Once  more  say  that  you  forgive  me,  Gertrude." 

She  bent  over  him  and  answered,  "Bather  forgive  vie, 
my  husband.  0  Maurice,  God  once  gave  you  back  to  my 
prayers "  ^ 

■'  Ay,"  he  exclaimed,  "  and  priceless  was  the  boon  f//fn  of 
the  life  restored,  and  lent  for  a  few  days.  To  die  ///en.  my 
beloved,  would  have  been  a  deserved  but  a  sad  fate ;  whereas 
noic,  licrc^  tints,  my  wife,   my  friend,  it  is  a  blessing  as  great 

as  his   mercy  Hush,  do  not  interrupt  me   now.      The 

time  is  short,  and  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  both.  First, 
dearest  Gertrude,  tell  her  whom  1  loved  before,  and  only  less 
than  you,  that  in  my  dying  hour  1  have  blessed  her.  Thai 
here,  round  my  neck,  I  have  always  worn  the  little  mcdai 
which  she  placed  there  the  first  time  that  we  parted.  Tell 
her  that  through  all  my  sins  and  my  sufferings,  I  have  nevei 
omitted  to  say  every  day  the  short  prayer  she  then  gave  me 
Take  it,  Gertrude,  and  let  Mary  have  it.  And  now  listen 
both  of  you,  to  my  last  words,  my  last  wish,  my  last  request 
There  is  a  thought  that  would  give  me  inexpressible  consola 


318  LADY-BIRD. 

tion  in  these  my  last  moments.  Adrien !  Gertrude !  I  have 
stood  between  you  and  happiness  during  my  life.  0  let  it 
not  be  so  after  my  death.  Give  me  your  hands — let  me  join 
them  together — let  me  feel  that  you  will  both  be  happy  when 
I  am  dead,  that  the  memory  of  all  I  have  made  you  suffer 
will  only  unite  you  more  closely  to  each  other,  and  that 
thoughts  of  tenderness  and  pity  for  one  who  sinned  against 
you  so  deeply  will  be  mixed  with  every  recollection  of  the 
past." 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  feel  anything  but  love  and 
gratitude  for  you,  Maurice?"  she  murmured  almost  inaudi- 
■bly,  and  Adrien  grasped  more  tightly  the  hand  he  was 
holding. 

Maurice  made  a  faint  attempt  to  unite  theirs,  and  articu- 
lated with  effort,  but  with  an  imjiloring  expression,  "  Promise 
me  that  you  will  marry."  She  shook  her  head,  and  passed 
her  arm  round  his  neck.  "  For  my  peace,  for  my  sake,"  he 
ejaculated;  simultaneously  she  and  Adrien  joined  their  hands 
for  one  instant,  and  then  bent  over  him  in  speechless  emotion, 
for  life  was  ebbing  fast,  and  death  approaching.  A  look  -of 
repose  settled  on  his  face,  a  faint  smile  played  on  his  lips,  and 
his  spirit  passed  away.  Adrien  and  Gertrude  repeated  the 
"  De  Frofundis  "  before  they  rose  from  their  knees,  and  then 
separated,  only  once  to  meet  again, — by  the  side  of  Maurice's 
grave  in  the  cemetery  of  New  York.  There  they  parted,  with 
silent  blessings  and  a  mute  farewell,  their  tears  falling  less  in 
sorrow  for  the  dead  or  their  own  parting,  than  in  memory  of 
the  past,  with  its  buried  affections  and  its  chastened  griefs. 
From  that  spot  where  for  the  last  time  they  knelt  together 
each  went  on  his  way, 

"  With  lieart  .subduetl,  but  cuiirage  liigli." 

On  her  arrival  at  New  York  Gertrude  had  sought  an 
abode  in  a  convent,  where  for  a  short  time  she  remained,  and 
from  thence  wrote  to  Mary  Gre}',  sending  her  Maurice's  medal, 
and  briefly  stating  the  circumstances  of  his  death,  and  her  own 
intention  to  devote  the  rest  of  her  life  to  the  service  of  God, 
in  whatever  way  it  would  seem  His  will  to  lead  her. 

In  the  first  days  of  her  widowhood  she  had  entertained 
the  hope  tlial  tlie  religious  life  might  be  tlie  lot  that  He  had 
appointed  her.  but  another  duty,  another  consolation,  a  great 
and  unexpected  blessing  was  granted  to  one  who  felt  alone  in 


lADY-BIRD.  319 

the  world,  and  to  whom  it  seemed  as  a  token  of  forgiveness, 
and  a  direct  gift  from  Heaven.  A  few  months  elapsed  and 
Gertrude  had  a  child.  She  loved  it  with  all  the  tenderness 
which  she  had  so  long  refused  to  its  fether ;  and  when  in  her 
infant's  face  she  saw  again  the  eyes  that  had  been  so  often  bent 
upon  her  with  unrequited  alFcction,  its  tears  fell  fast  on  the 
little  cheek  that  was  closely  pressed  to  her  own. 

She  did  not  write  to  her  own  family,  but  Edgar  Lifford, 
as  soon  as  the  news  of  her  husband's  death  and  afterwards  of 
her  son's  birth  had  reach  him,  sent  letters  which,  althouirh 
couched  in  his  usual  formal  style,  were  full  of  kindness  and 
good  feeling.  He  inquired  after  her  worldly  circumstances, 
and  made  her  offers  of  assistance :  she  wanted  but  little,  and 
that  only  for  her  child  ;  poverty  was  her  choice,  and  labour 
her  happiness.  Amongst  the  poor  Irish  who  are  continually 
landing  in  America  she  found  every  kind  of  suffering  to  alle- 
viate, of  sorrow  to  console.  It  was  her  delight  to  watch  for 
the  arrival  of  the  emigrant  ships,  and  to  give  a  welcome  to 
the  lonely  heart,  a  helping  hand  to  the  helpless.  Children 
who  had  lost  their  parents  during  the  passage,  widows  who 
had  seen  their  husbands  die  in  their  arms,  the  girl  who  had 
sinned  and  longed  to  repent,  the  father  who  liad  babes,  and  no 
wife  to  care  for  them, — found  a  friend  in  the  pale  woman  in 
deep  mourning  who  never  turned  away  from  their  tale  of  woo, 
— and  who  with  her  child  in  her  arms,  and  later  in  her  hand, 
knew  the  road  to  their  poor  homes,  and  the  way  to  their  warm 
hearts.  She  was  known  in  that  foreign  land  by  her  old 
familiar  name,  and  it  became  a  byword  of  love  in  the  mouths 
of  the  poor. 

It  was  little  Maurice  that  had  taught  it  them.  One  day 
that  he  had  brought  in  childish  glee  a  "  Lady-bird "  liome, 
he  wondered  at  the  tears  that  started  in  her  eyes,  even  though 
she  smiled  at  the  same  time.  But  she  whispered,  "  That  was 
mother's  name  once,"  and  he  lisped  it  often  afterwards,  and 
others  learnt  it  of  him.  The  sufferers  in  the  hospitals  asked 
for  her.  The  poor  in  their  hovels  welcomed  her.  The  chil- 
dren hung  on  the  skirts  of  her  black  faded  dress,  and  all  who 
knew  her  face  with  ite  beauty,  and  her  voice  with  its  melody, 
and  her  smile  with  its  sweetness,  would  murmur  as  she  passed 
along  the  crowded  streets  on  her  errands  of  merey,  "'  Heaven 
bless  that  fair  Lady-Bird,  who  goes  about  doing  good." 

Some  years  elapsed,  and  then  one  day  Gertrude  received 
from  her  brother  the  following  letter : 


?20  LADY-BIRD. 

"  My  dear,  Gertrude, — At  last,  after  our  long  travels,  we 
bave  returned  to  LiflPord  Grange,  and  I  grieve  to  tell  you  that 
my  father's  health  is  in  a  very  unsatisfactory  state.  He  i^ 
uiuch  altered  in  every  way. — both  in  body  and  mind.  His 
memory  is  much  impaired  ;  at  least  it  is  so  in  many  respects, 
though  in  one  instance  alone  it  seems  more  lively  than  it  was. 
I  had  imagined,  my  dear  sister,  that  he  had  entirely  forgotten 
you,  for  until  quite  lately  he  never  made  any  allusion  to  you, 
or  seemed  to  recollect  your  existence.  But  since  we  have  re- 
turned to  this  place  he  has  often  spoken  of  you.  He  does  not 
know  that  I  am  writing,  but  I  have  been  consulting  with  Mr. 
Erving,  and  we  both  think  that  if  you  could  come  to  England, 
he  would  see  you,  and  that  it  might  work  in  him  a  favourable 
change. 

"  Indeed,  my  dear  sister,  he  is  in  a  very  sad  state.  The 
extraordinary  part  of  it  is,  that  he  seems  to  think  himself — 
somehow  or  other — to  blame  about  our  poor  mother's  death.  It 
is  a  nervous  fancy,  but  it  preys  much  on  his  mind.  He  has 
chosen  r.ow  to  occupy  the  apartment  in  which  she  lived,  and 
can  seldom  be  persuaded  to  leave  it,  and  when  he  does  go  out 
it  is  not  beyond  the  park.  I  hear  from  Mary  Grey  that  you 
have  no  intention  of  becoming  a  imn,  though  you  lead  the  life 
of  a  Sister  of  Charity.  There  are  good  works  to  be  done 
everywhere,  and  a  very  good  one  here,  I,  am  convinced.  I 
wish  I  could  write  to  you  a  persuasive  letter,  but  it  is  not  in 
mj'  line.  You  would  hardly  know  your  father  again, — his  hair 
is  quite  white. — no  one  would  think  he  was  only  fifty  years 
old. 

'•  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  understand  from  this  letter  how 
much  I  wisli  you  to  eouie.  I  cannot  be  quite  certain  that  my 
father  will  receive  you,  or  that  he  will  be  willing  to  see  your 
little  boy,  but  Mrs.  Kedmond  can  give  you  a  room  at  the  cot- 
tage, if  he  does  not  invite  you  to  remain  here.  I  think  very 
diflerently  about  many  things  from  what  I  used  to  do.  Per- 
haps it  is  the  same  with  you,  and  that  we  may  be  surprised  to 
find  how  much  better  we  agree  than  formerly.  I  often  go  to 
Mrs.  Redmond's  cottage,  and  talk  about  you  with  Mary  Grey. 
Pray  write  soon  at  all  events,  and  believe  me,  your  affectionate 
brother, 

'•Edgar." 

Gertrude  sat  :ui  instant  abs^orbed  in  thought.  It  was  a 
great  emotion  that  was  stirring  lier  heart.      Old  thoughts,  old 


i-Anv-uiRD.  321 

places,  tlie  faint  shadows  of  long  departed  dreams,  the  names 
of  her  father,  licr  broth(!r,  Mary,  Liiford  (Jraiige,  and  Stonc- 
houseluigh,  tlie  living  and  tlie  dead  all  rose  before  her.  and  for 
an  instant  her  bosom  heaved,  and  the  old  troubled  look  passed 
through  the  depths  of  her  eyes.  She  could  not  be  glad  to  go 
home.  For  her  the  familiar  scenes  which  exiles  have  sighed 
for,  as  a  thirsty  man  longs  for  a  cup  of  cold  water,  had  no 
soothing  charm.  Hers  were  not  griefs  which  could  enter  into 
the  feeling  of  tenderness,  '•'■pour  ce  bon  vicvx  tcjnps  oil  fi't.ais 
si  malhcurcuseV  Old  things  had  passed  away, — new  and 
blessed  ones  had  arisen  ;  and  she  loved  the  New  World,  where 
her  child  was  born,  where  she  had  begun  a  life  of  virtue  and 
of  peace  ;  but  there  hung  too  deep  shadows  on  the  path  she 
had  trodden — there  was  something  too  awful  in  her  recollec- 
tions of  what  she  had  once  felt  and  had  been — to  allow  of  the 
fond  and  softening  enjoyments  of  sympathetic  association. 
But  she  was  not  the  less  grateful  that  her  brother  had  sent  for 
her;  she  did  not  the  less  readily  prepare  to  go  to  that  father, 
whose  character  she  understood  better  than  formerly,  perhaps 
through  the  continual  and  deep  examination  she  had  made  of 
her  own. 

The  room  which  for  so  many  years  his  wife  had  occupied, 
Mr.  Liiford  now  inhabited.  There  was  not  a  single  thing  re- 
moved, or  altered  in  it,  since  the  day  of  her  death.  He  was 
an  old  man  in  appearance,  though  not  in  reality. — not  more 
amiable  in  manner,  but  yet  very  different  from  what  he  used 
to  be.  There  is  a  great  power  in  the  words  of  a  dying  per- 
son ;  the  heart  must  be  hopelessly  hardened  that  can  withstand 
truth  when  uttered  at  such  a  time. 

Mr.  Liiford  had  been  a  self-deceiver  from  his  youth  up- 
wards. He  had  shut  out  the  voice  of  conscience  with  the 
same  strength  of  volition  with  which  he  had  resisted  every 
will  but  his  own.  Father  Liiford  had  spoken  to  him  on  his 
death-bed  some  of  those  words  that  cannot  be  shut  out.  He 
kept  them  at  bay  for  a  long  while ;  but  in  a  dangerous  illness 
he  had  had  abroad,  and  in  tlie  protracted  weakness  that  fol- 
lowed it.  they  pursued  him  incessantly,  and  obliged  him  to 
hearken.  But  it  was  terror  not  repentance,  remorse  not  peni- 
tence that  overcame  him;  his  wife's  last  gasping  sigh, — his 
daughter's  look  when  he  approached  her  that  day,  were  ever 
present  before  him.  Did  Gertrude  think  he  had  killed  her 
mother  by  that  scene  which  had  been  fatal  to  her  ?     This  was 

21 


.^22  LADY-CTnU. 

the  question  lie  was  perpetually  asking  himself;  and  his  mem 
ory  became  confused,  and  he  felt  as  if  that  stern  and  beautiful 
face  which  he  had  never  looked  on  with  pleasure,  and  which 
he  now  longed  to  behold  again,  was  haunting  him  contin- 
ually, and  would  haunt  him  to  all  eternity  with  its  silent  re- 
proaches 

When  he  returned  to  LifFord  Grange,  the  impression  be- 
came stronger  than  ever.  lie  shut  himself  up  in  what  had 
been  his  wife's  apartment,  and  refused  to  sec  any  one.  Once 
]Mr.  Erving  was  admitted  to  him,  and  probed  the  wounds 
which  had  so  long  been  concealed  by  an  icy  surface.  He  did 
not  moasvire  their  depth,  but  guessed  they  were  profound. 
Mr.  LiiFord  had  long  neglected  all  rcligiovxs  duties,  and  he 
now  apparently  gave  himself  up  to  a  settled  despair.  Nothing 
roused  him  from  this  sullen  dejection  and  silent  apathy,  ex- 
cejit  accidentally  awakened  recollections  of  the  death-bed  of 
his  wife.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  everything  about 
Gertrude's  marriage,  her  widowhood,  and  the  birth  of  her 
cliild  ;  or  at  least  he  never  alluded  to  these  facts ;  but,  as 
Edgar  had  said,  named  her  sometimes,  but  as  if  he  was  speak- 
ing of  somebody  who  was  dead.  Why  he  chose  to  live  in  his 
wife's  rooms,  nobody  could  understand,  except  those  who 
know  that  remorse  has  sometimes  the  same  instincts  as  aflfec- 
tion.  It  was  then  that  his  son  wrote  to  Gertrude,  and  counted 
the  days  till  he  received  her  answer. 

She  came  on  a  summer  evening  back  to  the  home  of  her 
youth,  after  years  of  absence.  She  came  to  it  as  people  in  a 
dream  arrive  in  well-known  places,  and  without  surprise  find 
everything  different  and  yet  nothing  altered.  P]dgar  had  met 
her  at  the  station,  and  in  his  heavy  and  calm  features  an  ap- 
_pearance  of  emotion  was  perceptible.  He  took  her  child  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  him.  There  was  another  person  also 
waiting  at  the  station,  whose  longndisciplined  heart  was  beat- 
ing less  calmly  than  usual,  as  she  caught  sight  of  Gertrude 
and  her  child  ;  and,  falling  on  her  knees,  threw  her  arms  round 
the  boy.  '•  0  Maurice  1"  was  all  she  said  ;  but  when  he  asked 
in  childish  surprise,  "  Are  you  another  mother  ?"  she  whispered 
"  No,  I  am  only  Mary ;"  but  she  felt,  and  he  seemed  also  to 
feel  that  his  own  mother  did  not  love  him  more  than  Mary. 
He  was  consigned  to  her  care,  while  the  long-parted  brother 
and  sister  drove  away  together  along  the  well-known  lanes, 
towards  that  house  she  had  hated  and  fled  from. 

They  spoke  but  little  till  they  reached  its  gate.     The  wo- 


LADY-BfllD.  323 

mac  at  the  lodge  courtcsied  to  her,  and  the  rooks  made  their 
accustomed  noise  in  the  branches  over-head,  as  they  drove 
through  the  avenue.  "  Gertrude,"  he  suddenly  said,  '•  his 
mind  is  not  right;  lie  talks  very  strangely  at  times  about  you 
and  my  mother.  We  think  you  had  better  go  to  him  at  once. 
Have  you  the  courage  to  do  so? — He  might  be  angry." 

"  I  braved  his  anger  too  often  in  my  wilfulness."  she  re- 
plied, '•  to  shrink  from  it  now,  when  I  would  give  my  life  to 
comfort  him." 

For  one  moment  she  looked  about  her  with  a  bewildered 
feeling  as  she  entered  the  house.  There  was  the  same  look, 
the  same  sound  of  the  great  clock,  the  same  indefinable  smell, 
the  same  sensation  she  knew  so  well.  Was  she  dreaming  of 
being  Gertrude  LifFord  returning  to  Lifford  Grange,  or  had  the 
last  years  been  a  long  dream  compressed  in  the  second  of  time 
between  sleeping  and  waking  ?  The  old  butler  came  up  to 
her  ;  she  seized  his  hand,  and  then  the  floodgates  were  let 
loose  for  a  moment.  She  gave  a  kind  of  cry,  but  soon  was 
quite  calm  again.  "  Now,"  she  said  to  Edgar.  "  now  at  once  ; 
let  me  go  to  him,  but  be  near  us  in  case  he  should  be  too  much 
agitated." 

She  walked  through  the  narrow  passage  out  of  the  hall, 
and  up  to  the  door  of  the  room  where  he  was, — that  room 
with  the  pictures,  the  crucifix,  and  the  couch  !  She  knocked, 
and  then  went  in.  He  looked  up — what  would  she  have  done 
if  he  had  not  opened  his  arms,  and  cried  "  Gertrude ! "  she 
knew  not,  but  he  did  so  ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives 
the  father's  and  the  daughter's  lips  met  in  one  long  embrace. 
"  Gertrude,"  he  whispered  tremulously  without  letting  her  go 
— '-Gertrude,  I  wanted  you."  He  did  not  ask  any  questions ; 
he  spoke  not  of  the  past;  perhaps  he  felt  sufficiently  absolved 
by  that  embrace  from  his  worst  fears.  He  did  not  show  her 
any  tenderness ;  it  was  not  in  his  nature ;  but  both  felt  that 
henceforward  she  was  to  be  the  only  possible  comfort  of  that 
cold  and  silent  man,  who  sighed  when  she  went  away,  but  did 
not  ask  her  to  remain.  He  hated  the  thought  of  the  marriage 
she  had  made  as  much  as  ever,  and  could  not  bring  himself 
to  speak  of  her  child  ;  but  he  was  restless  the  next  day  till 
she  returned,  and  her  daily  visits  became  to  him  what  music 
is  to  tlie  blind,  or  repose  to  the  weary. 

She  took  up  her  residence  in  Mrs.  Redmond's  cottage,  and 
occupied  wliat  used  to  be  Maurice's  roou).  Every  day  she 
left  that  little   cheerful  abode,  wliich  was  as  full  as  ever  of 


324  LADY-BIRD. 

flowers  and  (?f  sunshine,  and  where  her  boy  played  with  her 
under  the  old  tree,  or  sat  on  Mary's  knee,  listening  to  nursery 
tales ;  and  through  that  same  path  which  she  had  once  trod 
in  misery  and  despair,  she  walked  to  the  gate  of  the  Grange, 
and  up  the  long  avenue  of  yews,  to  the  well  known  room  where 
her  father  always  sat,  and  spent  some  hours  with  him.  She 
used  to  bring  her  work,  and  sit  opposite  to  him  while  he 
wrote  ;  and  sometimes  she  read  out  loud,  or  walked  with  him 
on  the  terrace.  He  never  appeared  so  tranquil  as  wheu  she 
was  present. 

This  strange  mode  of  life  was  a  trial  to  one  whose  character, 
although  disciplined  and  exalted,  was  eager  and  enthusiastic 
still,  and  had  been  used  to  spend  its  fervour  in  toils  and  pui*- 
suits  which  were  less  hardships  than  enjoyments ;  but  she  had 
now  but  one  object,  one  guiding  principle,  and  duty  had  be- 
come the  passion  of  her  soul.  The  forms  which  memory  re- 
called, the  images  of  the  dead  and  of  the  past  which  haunted 
those  scenes,  only  strengthened  her  resolutions  and  confirmed 
her  patience.  It  had  its  reward,  though  it  seemed  long  de- 
ferred. 

One  day  that  she  was  reading  to  him  the  French  news- 
paper, which  he  had  taken  in  for  years,  and  the  sight  of  which 
had  turned  her  pale  the  first  time  it  met  her  sight,  she  camo 
to  an  account  of  the  martyrdom  of  some  of  the  Jesuit  mis- 
sionaries in  China,  and  of  the  hair-breadth  escape  of  others, 
who  were  still  labouring  in  the  same  regions.  Her  eye  glanced 
down  the  page,  and  faltered  a  little.  "  Why  do  you  stop?'.' 
her  father  asked,  and,  subduing  her  emotion,  she  went  on  to 
read  the  following  sentence  ; — 

"  Uun  de  ccs  gen6reux  ajmtres,  qui  ont  (cJiap^-t^  prcsque 
par  miracle  a.  unc  mort  effroyablc^  imrtait  autrefois  dans  h 
vionde  un  nom  assez  a'ldbre.  Lc  Comte,  maint.cnant  le  Fere 
d^Arbcrg,  dont  Ics  Merits  ont  si  puissa)nmcn.t  contribue  an 
rcvcil  religieiix  de  la  Fratice^  brave  le  trcpas  dans  les  cnntrees 
oil  son  zrle  Va  conduit^  et  la  vuix  que  jadis  nous  avons  con.- 
niie  et  adniircc.  annonce  V Evangile  aux  enfants  de  PAsic.'^* 

Mr.  Lifford  looked  at  his  daughter,  and  her  eyes  met  his. 

*  Amongst  the  gonorous  nii.s.^ioiuirics  who  tlius  narrowly  escaped 
the  horrors  of  a  lingering  doalli  wa.H  llie  Father,  once  Iho  I'lount,  d'Ar- 
lierg,  wiiose  Wi>rks  ;;o  puwi'rfiilly  eontrilmled  to  the  religiunn  n'acliini 
in  Fianec;.  lie  is  1  if.^.'ing  the  danger  of  martyrikiin  in  the  remote  eonn 
tries  where  his  /.eal  has  led  liim  ;  and  Ihevoieewe  knew  so  well  aud 
adndred  so  mueh  is  preuehing  the  Gospel  to  the  children  of  Asia. 


LADY-BIRD.  325 

Another  father  and  dauf^hter  might  pcrliaps  have  spoken  then, 
and  a  rocipracal  pardon  been  souglit  and  obtained  ;  but  this 
was  not  in  their  characters.  She  glanced  once  at  tlie  picture 
that  liung  near  the  coucli,  then  at  the  crucifix  that  stood  nt 
its  foot,  and  proceeded  to  read  the  "  Foreign  Intelligence,"  a 
literary  review,  and  whatever  else  the  newspaper  contained. 
Yet  in  that  short  instant  much  had  passed  in  the  minds  of 
both,  and  a  tacit  understanding  arrived  at  between  them. 
They  knew  from  that  day  forward  that  not  one  shade  of  re- 
sentment existed  in  either,  and  that  the  silence  they  main- 
tained was  not  that  of  indiilerence. 

A  short  time  afterwards  Mr.  Lifford  sent  for  his  grandson, 
and  Gertrude  soon  removed  to  his  house  not  to  leave  it  asain. 
The  sight  of  that  child  was  doubtless  a  trial  to  the  repentant 
but  not  yet  altered  man.  Men's  prejudices  may  be  overcome 
to  a  certain  degree,  but,  especially  at  that  age,  not  altogether 
removed.  The  boy  had  the  run  of  that  large  house  and  those 
wide  solemn  gardens,  and  filled  them  with  childish  glee  and 
laughter.  He  was  a  great  favourite  with  his  un«le,  who  in- 
structed him  in  languages  and  natural  history,  and  had  visions 
of  a  change  of  name  for  him  hereafter,  which  honour  his  mo- 
ther never  meant  to  consent  to  ;  but  into  the  terrace-rooms, 
as  they  were  called,  he  seldom  went,  but  used  now  and  then, 
from  the  corner  of  the  walk,  to  peep  at  his  grandfather's 
stately  form  and  melancholy  face — wondering  in  his  childish 
cogitations  if  he  were  doing  penance  in  that  room  ;  and  he 
guessed  rightly. 

It  was  a  long  and  bitter  penance,  and  it  bore  fruit  in  the 
end.  That  room  and  his  daughter, — its  aspect  and  her  pre- 
sence— wrought  a  final  change  in  him,  and  grace  found  its  way 
to  his  soul.  The  sources  of  past  and  recent  sufferings  became, 
as  it  were,  sacraments  of  reconciliation  and  symbols  of  pardon. 
He  made  his  peace  with  God,  and  returned  to  his  religious 
duties.  He  atoned  for  past  neglect  by  many  kind  and  chari- 
table actions ;  and  the  curse  of  a  hardened  heart  and  an  un- 
forgiving spirit  passed  away  from  him  for  ever. 

With  duties  showered  on  her  path  ;  with  a  father  to  con- 
sole, a  child  to  cherish,  and  a  brother  to  love  ;  with  the  fjoor 
(that  inexhaustible  mine  of  bliss  to  those  who  have  once 
worked  it)  to  serve,  Gertrude  was  happy  with  a  subdued  and 
quiet  happiness.  In  repentance,  in  affection,  in  admiration, 
they  all  gathered  around  her  and  called  her  blessed.  Those 
who,  like  Lady  Clara  Audlcy,  knew  the  history  of  her  life, 


320  LADY-BIRD. 

wondered  at  licr  cheerfulness,  and  others,  who  did  not,  some- 
times thouglit  they  saw 

"A  story  in  her  face," 

especially  on  the  day  when  Mary  Grey  accomplished  the  de- 
sire of  her  heart  and  became  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  giving  hence- 
forward to  Jesus,  in  his  suifering  ones,  that  deep  store  of  love 
which  had  once  been  lavished  on  one  only  of  his  creatures.  In 
the  words  of  the  American  poet, 

"Other  ho]>e  had  she  none,  nor  wisli  in  life  but  to  follow, 
Meekly,  witli  reverent  stejis,  the  sacred  feet  of  her  Saviour; 
Patienee  and  abnegation  of  self,  and  devotit)n  to  others. 
This  was  the  lesson  a  life  of  trial  and  sorrow  had  taught  her." 

She  in  her  holy  vocation,  and  Adrien  d'Arberg — in  the 
first  instance  in  a  foreign  land,  and  then  in  his  own  country — 
labouring  with  one  end,  living  but  for  one  object,  expending 
all  the  best  powers  of  intellect,  all  the  rich  treasures  of  the 
heart  with  which  Heaven  had  endowed  him  in  the  furtherance 
of  God's  kingdom  upon  earth,  were  both  happy  indeed,  with 
the  happiness  of  angels — happier  than  earth's  most  happy 
children.  Who  could  doubt  it  ?  Who  would  pity  them,  who 
do  not  pity  Elias  in  his  exile,  John  the  Baptist  in  the  desert, 
or  the  widow  of  fourscore,  who  departed  not  from  the  temple 
day  or  night  'i 

"  0  there  are  various  paths  and  ways,  the  i;pugh  ones  and  the  sweety 
Through  whicli  God's  guiding  hand  conducts  his  children's  wandermg 

feet. 
Thorns  are  in  all,  but  some  have  few  to  tread  down  as  they  go, 
And  every  tree  and  bush  they  pass  its  blossoms  o'er  them  throw; 
'J'he  hleeding  feet,  the  aching  brow,  the  desert's  scorcliing  air, 
The  tem[)tcr'3  voice,  the  inward  strife,  of  others  are  the  share. 
Wliieh  are  most  blest?     We  dare  not  say  ;  lie  has  a  work  for  each, 
An  aim,  a  pni-pose,  and  an  end,  that  to  his  feet  will  reach." 

Lady  Clara  Audley  and  Mr.  Lifford  met  again.  The 
wound,  which  had  so  long  remained  open,  was  closed  at  last, 
and  to  forgive  he?- — the  first  and  the  only  person  he  had  really 
loved — was  one  of  the  results  of  the  change  which  sorrow,  re- 
morse, and  the  influence  of  his  children  had  gradually  wrought 
upon  him.  It  was  not  without  agitation,  however,  that  he 
beheld  her  again  the  first  time  she  drove  up  to  that  house 
where  he  had  once  hoped  to  bring  her  as  a  bride ;  and  it  waa 


I 


LADY-BIRD.  327 

with  a  strange  mixture  of  pain  and  emotion  that  he  looked  at 
her,  as  she  stood  on  tlie  terrace  by  tlic  side  of  his  daughter, 
and  that  he  heard  the  sound  of  tliat  laugh  which  had  onco 
awoke  in  his  breast  such  alternations  of  joy  and  despair. 

As  he  gazed  on  her  still  radiant  beauty,  he  could  hardly 
believe  that  they  had  indeed  been  young  together,  that  not 
many  more  years  had  passed  over  his  head  than  over  hers. 
Time,  which  had  laid  so  heavy  a  hand  upon  him,  had  dealt 
very  mercifully  with  her  ;  and  he  could  now  reflect  without 
bitterness,  and  even  acknowledce  with  gratitude,  that  it  had 
been  better  for  both  of  tiiem  to  part  as  they  had  done,  than 
to  have  lived,  she  to  suffer  at  his  hands,  and  he  to  see  her 
beautiful  face  shaded  by  sorrow  or  hardening  into  indifference. 
He  knew  himself  now  W(dl  enough  to  rejoice  that  she  at  least 
had  escaped  the  blighting  influence  of  his  remorseless  tyranny, 
that  at  least  that  fair  flower  had  been  spai'ed  the  withering 
touch  of  his  hand. 

Lady  Clara  did  not  muse  so  pensively,  or  meditate  so 
deeply  vipon  the  past,  on  her  first  visit  to  Liff'ord  Grange  ;  but, 
weary  as  she  was  growing  of  the  same  round  of  amusements,  the 
same  society,  however  agreeable,  and  the  endless  source  of  varied 
and  yet  monotonous  amusements  in  which  her  days  were  .spent, 
she  found  it  pleasant  to  add  a  new  interest  to  those  which  were 
beginning  to  pall  upou  her.  and  soon  became  as  fond  of  Lad}'- 
Uird  as  at  the  time  of  their  first  acrjuaintance.  She  learnt  from 
her  some  valuable  secrets  about  killing  time  in  a  better  manner 
than  she  had  hitherto  practised,  of  turnhig  her  love  of  giving 
pleasure  into  that  of  promoting  happiness,  and  expanding  her 
taste  for  the  beautiful  into  a  higher  development  of  the  same 
faculty  in  more  exalted  directions.  Their  intercourse  was 
productive  of  mutual  improvements.  At  Lady  Clara's  sug- 
gestion, new  beds  of  flowers  ornamented  the  gardens  of  the 
Grange;  clear  water  flowea  through  its  ruined  fountains; 
clematis  adorned  the  porch  of  its  schools,  and  China  roses 
clustered  on  the  walls  of  its  almshouses  ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  in  her  home  and  in  the  neighbourhood,  amidst  the  profu- 
sion of  ornament  and  the  luxury  of  refinement,  seeds  of  use- 
fulness were  sown  that  produced  blossoms  in  time,  and  fruit  in 
the  end. 

Two  years  after  Gertrude's  arrival  at  Lifford  Grange, 
Edgar  met  at  Audley  Park  a  young  girl  for  whom  he  con- 
ceived an  attachment,  and  who  reciprocated  his  affection.  She 
was  of  a  good  but  not  an  ancient  family  ;  he  feared  to  ask  his  fa 


328  LADY-BIRD. 

tlior's  consent  to  tlieir  niarriago,  and  Gertriule  felt  that  to  bo 
ground  ou  which  she  did  not  venture  to  tread,  liut  Lady 
Clara  asked  for  an  interview  with  the  man  who  had  once  so 
much  loved  her.  and  pleaded  the  cause  of  the  young  people. 
She  tried  to  smile  as  she  did  so.  but  there  was  something  in 
his  face  and  manner  that  checked  that  smile.  She  thought  he 
was  about  abruptly  to  refuse  his  consent,  but  he  looked  at  her 
steadily,  and  pointing  to  his  wife's  picture  and  to  his  daugh- 
ter's, which  had  been  restored  to  its  place,  he  said  in  a  slow 
impressive  manner — 

"  You  speak  to  one  whose  Pride  was  tJieir  misery.  Send 
Edgar  to  me  at  once :  does  he  think  I  still  worship  the  idol 
that  destroyed  them  ?  "  * 

When  Gertrude  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  thank- 
ed him  for  the  consent  he  had  given  to  her  brother's  marriage, 
he  held  her  at  a  distance  from  him  for  an  instant,  and  gazed 
at  her  with  an  indescribable  expression.  "  Do  you  think  I  am 
not  happy  ?  "  she  asked  with  one  of  those  smiles  which  leave 
no  doubt  as  to  the  source  from  whence  they  spring, — a  heart 
full  of  the  peace  and  joy  which  the  world  cannot  give  nor  the 
world  .take  away.  Then  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and  gave 
her  one  of  those  blessings  which,  though  uttered  by  human 
lips,  seem  to  descend  straight  from  Heaven  ;  and  since  that 
time  there  have  been  flowers  in  the  gardens,  and  happiness 
within  the  walls  of  the  old  house  of  Liflbrd  Grange. 


THg    EFB. 


Ood  our  Father,  Notices  of  the  Press. 

"God  our  Father  Is  an  interesting  •work,  written  in  a  simple  but 
forcible  style,  setting  forth  the  infinite  mercy  of  God,  and  calming 
the  souls  of  all  those  who  morbidly  dwell  upon  the  severity  of  Hia 
justice  in  the  puitishment  of  unrepentant  sinners.  It  also  teaches 
how  peace  of  conscience  can  be  obtained,  and  how  bodily  suffering 
can  be  endured  with  patience.  The  practical  illustrations  are  very 
happy,  and  the  essay  may  be  read  with  profit  by  persons  of  all  de- 
nominations." Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

"  It  is  in  particular  adapted  to  those  pious  souls  in  whom,  from  a 
•wrong  view  of  God,  spite  all  their  wishes,  fear  of  Him  takes  the  place 
of  lo'ye."  N.Y.  Tablet. 

"  Rarely  have  we  taken  up  a  book  of  devotion  which  gave  us  so 
much  pleasure.  There  are  in  the  world  many  persons,  pious  and 
moral  withal,  whose  souls  are  continually  overspread  with  gloom  and 
despondency  —  whom  doubts  and  anxieties  as  to  their  spiritual  con- 
dition forever  perplex  and  harass  —  and  with  whom  the  fear  and  not 
the  love  of  God  is  the  incentive  to  piety.  It  was  to  bring  peace  and 
solace  to  such  souls,  to  remove  their  dread  forebodings,  to  enforce  the 
great  and  consoling  truth  that  God  is  our  Redeemer  and  Father,  and 
to  beget  confidence  in  His  infinite  mercy  and  compassion,  that  thia 
beautiful  and  useful  book  was  written."      Wilmington  {Bel.)  Gazette, 

"The  aim  of  the  author  in  this  work  has  been  the  amplification  of 
the  Divine  attribute  of  mercy,  by  giving  prominence  to  the  con- 
sideration of  the  Deity  in  the  paternal  relation  to  mankind.  God, 
the  Father,  ready  to  receive  and  forgive  sinners,  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  ideas  of  the  Christian  faith,  and  our  author  has  been  fully 
impressed  with  the  beauty  of  his  subject,  and  nothing  can  more 
tenderly  appeal  to  the  religious  element  of  our  natures  than  the  im- 
pressive and  loving  manner  in  which  he  has  presented  this  view  of 
the  Almighty  Power.  No  more  practical  ana  available  means  of 
awakening  the  mind  to  the  importance  of  religion  can  be  suggested 
than  in  thus  appealing  to  the  finer  qualities  of  our  nature,  and  the 
pleasing  manner  in  which  this  idea  is  carried  out  by  the  author 
renders  the  book  one  of  great  value  to  the  anxious  seeker  after  re- 
ligious truths."  Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

"  The  book  is  adapted  to  every  class  of  readers,  and  of  every  creed, 
there  being  nothing  sectarian  about  it.  The  Presbyterian,  the  Episco- 
palian, the  Methodist,  and  the  Catholic^  can  read  it  with  equal  appre- 
ciation and  benefit.  The  same  qualities  of  style  which  gave  such 
grace  and  unction  to  the  '  Happiness  of  Heaven  '  appear  in  this  little 
volume.  The  scholar  will  be  delighted  with  its  perusal,  while  the 
unlettered  can  draw  comfort  and  consolation  from  its  pages  —  so 
cultured  and,  at  the  same  time,  so  simple  and  luminous  is  the  char- 
acter of  the  language  used.  The  author  is  particularly  fertile  and 
felicitous  in  his  illustrations.  They  are  always  pertinent,  explanatory 
and  convincing."  Every  Evening  ( Wilmington,  Del.). 

"  We  bid  God  our  Father  a  hearty  welcome,  and  wish  we  could 
Introduce  it  to  every  Catholic  family.  There  are  too  many  Christians, 
who,  though  they  may  be  constantly  living  in  the  state  of  grace,  still 
do  not  find  any  relish  in  their  religious  practices,  because  they  take 
a  wrong  view  of  Grod.  This  book,  if  read  by  them,  will  pour  a  new 
light  upon  their  path ;  it  will  be  to  them  like  the  sunny  spring,  chasing 
away  past  chill  and  gloom,  and  not  only  cheering  life,  but  also  in« 
Tigorating  spiritual  growth."        Sunday-School  Messenger  (Chicago). 

Murx>hy  &  Co.,  Publishers  and  Booksellers,  Baltimore. 


Moral  and  Instructive  Tales. 

HEPRiR  CONSCIEEiCE'S  SHORT  TALES, 

CHEAP  AND  UNIFORM  EDITION, 

Li  13  vols,  demi  80.  cloth,  ^1;  cloth,  gilt  sides  and 
edges,  $1.25.  The  complete  set,  in  boxes,  12  vols., 
cloth,  $12  ;  cloth,  gilt  sides  and  edges,  $15. 

The  Publishers  desire  to  invite  especial  attention  to  this 
New,  Cheap  and  Uniform  Edition  of  the  Short  Tales  of  M. 
Hendrik  Consciencb,  the  distinguished  Flemish  Novelist. 
PoNTMARTiN,  the  acute  French  Critic  and  Eeviewer,  has 
likened  the  Stories  of  Conscience,  to  "  pearls  set  in  Flemish 
gold,"  and  in  point  of  delicacy  of  treatment  and  high  moral 
value,  they  richly  justify  the  comparison. 

There  is  a  pure  morality  throughout  the  works  of  this 
author,  happily  blending  Entertainment  with  Instruction, 
and  unmarred  by  Controversy,  which  makes  them  peculiarly 
fitted  for  the  perusal  of  the  young. 

1.  The  Poor  Gentleman, 

2.  The  Conscript  and  Blind  Rosa, 

Two  Tales  "In  one  volume. 

3.  Happiness  of  Being  Bich, 

4.  The  Miser, 

5.  BicheticTcetack  and  Wooden  Clara, 

Two  Tales  in  one  volume. 

6.  Count  Hugo  of  Craenhove. 

7.  The  Curse  of  the  Village, 

8.  TJie  Village  Innkeeper. 

(Published  in  1874.) 

9.  The  Fisherman's  Daughter, 

10.  The  Amulet. 

(Just  Published.) 

11.  TJie  Young  Doctor. 

12.  Ludovic  and  Gertrude, 

Murphy  &  Co.  Publishers  &  Booksellers,  Baltimore. 

4 


Soppiness  of  Heaven,  Notices  of  the  Press. 

"  The  book  Is  certainly  written  by  a  man  of  learning,  who  instructs 
by  the  force  of  his  reasoning,  and  charms  l)y  tlie  elegance  of  his  style ; 
but  its  value  is  enhanced  by  the  tender,  genuine  kindness  that  speaks 
from  every  page.  The  author  feels  what  he  says,  and  the  words  of 
consolation,  sympathy  and  encouragement  that  fall  so  naturally  from 
his  pen,  come  from  a  heart  tilled  with  a  sincere  and  earnest  love  for 
his  fellow  men."  Fhiladdphia  Age. 

"We  might,  perhaps,  appropriately  designate  this  work  as  the 
Popular  Theology  of  Heaven.'  Theology,  because  it  is  strictly  accu- 
rate in  its  dogmatic  teaching;  Popular,  because  the  subject,  without 
being  lowered,  is  brought  within  the  sphere  of  tlie  popular  mind. 
We  tnight  call  it  also  the  'Spiritual  (icography  of  Heaven,'  since  it 
gives  us  such  a  knowledge  as  wo  can  have  at  this  distance  of  the 
promised  land,  which  we  must  hope  oue  day  to  inhabit." 

CalhoUc  World. 

"  This  is  a  good  Catholic  book.  The  .st  yle  is  easy,  graceful  and  flow- 
ing  Isaac  Tayhjr's  'Pliysical  Theory  of  another  Life'  is  a  more 

ambitious  book,  and  deals  in  more  gorgeous  speculations,  but  we  doubt 
If,  on  the  whole,  it  produces  a  more  salutary  iiiijiression  on  the  heart 
of  the  Christian  reader."  Southern  lieeicw,  ,V/.  Lonis,  Mo. 

"There  is  not  a  single  dull  and  uninteresting  pa-^'O  in  the  book,  and 
the  logical  reasoning  and  theological  accuracy  that  jK'rvade  it,  are 
rendered  clear  and  distinct  to  the  comprehension  of  every  reader  by 
the  simplicity  and  force  of  the  comparisons  and  illustrations  inter- 
epersed  throughout."  Philiuklplila  Telegraph. 

"This  is  a  strictly  religious  book,  and  one  that  will  bo  read  with 
thrills  of  joy  by  devotional  peojile.  I'robahly  it  ought  to  be  read  by 
everybody,  for,  in  i)icturing  the  haijpini'ss  of  heaven,  the  learned 
author  haa  oudeavorcd  to  contribute  to  the  happiness  of  earth.'" 

Missouri  JieptiOlican. 

"In  the  chapter  on  the  'Social  Joys  of  Heaven,'  the  authjr  reveals 
a  knowledge  of,  and  sympathy  with,  the  tenderest  and  truest  chords 
of  our  nature;  the  doctrine  of  the  recognition  and  enjoyment  of  our 
loved  ones  in  heaven  is  acee])ted  tlie  more  gratefully,  as  it  accords 
with  the  natural  instincts  of  the  heart."  If.  Y.  Irish  American. 

"The  H.\rpiNESS  of  Hkaven  is  an  excellent  book,  and  its  perusal 
cannot  fail  detaching  our  souls  from  the  atlections  of  this  world, 
making  us  patient  in  trials,  and  impatient  to  reach  heaven." 

Bostmx  Pilot. 

"The  stylo  is  pure  and  graceful,  reminding  one,  by  it.s  easy  flow, of 
Irving  or  (ioldsniith.  *  *  *  The  liouk  should  be  a  vade  meeuin  willi 
every  I'rotestaut  as  well  as  Catholic.  No  doctrinal  points  are  touched 
upon.  It  is  not  controversial,  but  apjieal^  to  the  ])iously  disposed  ol 
every  creed  and  denomination."  Wilmington  (Bel.)  Gazette. 

"The  chapters  on  the  Beatific  Vision,  the  Beauty  and  Glory  of  the 
Risen  Body,  Social  .loys  in  Heaven,  the  Special  Ulory  awarded  to  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  sanctity,  are  particularly  line."         Calhulic  liecorJ. 

"It  is  one  of  the  most  charming  books  we  have  ever  read,  and 
though  religious  in  its  cliaracter,  and  severe  in  its  logic  and  theology, 
yet  so  interspersed  is  it  throughout  with  beautiful,  simple  and  etfect- 
ive  parables  and  illustrations,  and  so  easy  and  (lowing  in  its  style, 
that  even  the  reader  who  has  seldom  or  never  dipped  before  into  lit- 
erature of  this  kind,  will  be  delighted  with  its  perusal.'' 

Wilmington  (Del.)  Advertiser. 

Murphy  &  Co.,  Publishers  and  JiooTcscllerg,  Ualtiinore. 


Murphy  &  Co's  New  and  Resent  Fullications. 

GOn   OUR  FATHER, 

a  If  the  Author  of  Ilaiip'mess  of  Heaven. 

Second  Revised  Edition. 

God  our  Father  conies  from  a  pen  which  is  now  regarded  as  one 
of  the  most  interesting,  as  well  as  tlie  most  learned  among  modern 
Catholic  writers;  and  the  d(^light  with  which  the  Author's  former 
volume  was  received  by  readers  of  all  classes,  is  a  sufficient  warrant 
for  the  confidence  wo  feel,  tliat  God  our  Fatiiku  will  be  welcomed 
with  equal  favor.  It  is  intended  as  a  companion  volume  to  its  prede- 
cessor, and  is  uniform  with  it  in  every  respect. 

Extracts  from  Notices  of  the  Press. 

"  After  reading  this  little  book,  we  felt  an  ardent  desire  to  tell  every- 
body we  had  found  a  treasure.  Its  title,  a  ratlier  unusual  thing  now- 
a-days,  is  the  true  exponent  of  its  contents.  Tl)at  God  is  our  Father 
—  our  kind,  indulgent,  beneficent,  merciful,  loving  Fatlier  —  it  proves 
as  we  have  never  seen  proved  before.  We  do  think  if  Voltaire  had 
seen  this  little  treatise,  he  would  not  have  called  (iod  a  'tyrant,  and 
the  father  of  tyrants,'  and  be,  Voltaire,  would  not  have  been  a  fool, 
and  the  father  of  a  geueratiou  of  fools.  Some  Christians,  other  than 
Calvinists,  are  accustoiucd  to  regard  God  as  a  stern  judge,  or  an  exact- 
ing master,  ignoring  altogetlier  bis  parental  relation.sliip.  This  way 
of  regarding  God  not  unfrequently  produces  a  morbid  spirituality,  if 
not  wofse.  Under  its  baneful  inlluence,  the  soul  is  [larched  up  and 
rendered  incapable  of  any  otlier  sentiment  tlum  that  of  fear.  It  is 
true  that '  fear  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom  ; '  but  it  is  no  less  true  that 
'love  is  the  fulfilment  of  the  law,'  and  the  sublime  summary  of  the 
new  dispensation.  And  who  can  love  a  being  whom  he  sees  only  in 
the  light  of  a  stern  judge,  an  exacting  master?  Gtjd,  as  he  is  repre- 
sented in  this  work,  is  a  being  whum  yuu  cannot  but  love.  In  very 
truth,  the  author  himself  must  love  much,  or  he  could  never  write  so 
eloquently  of  divine  love. 

"  To  all  Catholics,  who  look  with  a  filial  confidence  to  God,  and  love 
him  as  their  Father,  we  recoiuuiend  this  book  as  a  means  of  strength- 
ening their  coulideuce,  and  increasing  their  love.  To  those  Catholics, 
happily  few,  who  see  in  God  only  a  rigid  master,  we  prescribe  the 
perusal  of  this  wurk  as  the  best  remedy  lor  their  dangerous  disease. 
To  our  separated  brethren,  who  want  to  get  a  Christian  idea  of  our 
common  Father,  we  would  respectfully  suggest  the  careful  study  of 
this  treatise ;  tliey  will  find  it  sutliciently  scriptural,  and  sufficiently 
simple  for  their  tastes. 

"  We  cannot,  perhaps,  pay  the  publishers  a  higher  compliment  than 
by  saying  that  the  setting  is  in  every  way  worthy  of  the  gem." 

Calfwiio   World. 

"  God  our  Father  is  especially  suited  to  the  generation  of  young 
Catholics  which  is  now  gro\¥ing  up.  It  is  written  in  an  easy  and 
graceful  style."  Catholic  Guardian  {Calijoniia). 

Murphy  &  Co.,  I'liltlishers  and  Itoolcsellevs,  Saltiinore. 


Uurplij  I  Co's  New  and  Recent  Publications. 

Books  for  the  Devotion  to  the  Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus, 
and  the  Apostleship  of  Prayer. 

New  and  Seasonable  Books  on  the  Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus. 

THE  FARADISE  OF  GOD,  or.  The  Virtues 

of  the  Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus,    by  a  Father  ov 

THE  Society  ok  Jesus.    Cloth,  81 ;  cl.  gt.,  81.50. 

Uniform  with  God  Our  Father,  and  Ilajypiness  of  TTeaven. 

Just  iit  this  time,  when  so  many  of  our  Most  Reverend  and  Right 
Reverend  Prelates  are  consecrating  tlieir  Dioceses  to  tlie  Sacred  Heart, 
and  urging  upon  the  faithful  the  importance  and  advantages  of  the 
beautiful  and  con.soling  devotion,  which  seems  to  have  been  given  to 
the  Church  in  our  day,  as  a  most  powerful  weajwn  of  defence  against 
the  dangers  which  beset  her;  the  publication  of  this  work  cannot  but 
be  most  welcome  to  Catholic  readers.  They  will  find  in  these  p.igea 
a  fervor  and  an  unction  which  will  remind  them,  more  than  once,  of 
good  Father  Faber;  and  they  will  draw  from  them  the  most  solid,  aa 
well  as  the  plainest  and  most  practical  lessons  of  devotion  to  the  Sa- 
cred Heart.  The  work  was  printed  by  chajjters,  in  the  "Messenger 
of  the  Sacred  Heart,"  and  tlie  praises  bestowed  on  it  by  readers  of 
every  class,  have  induced  us  to  hope  that  its  publication  in  a  mora 
permanent  fonn  will  be  gratifying  to  the  Catholic  Public,  and  maka 
the  book  more  generally  beneficial. 

DEVOTION  TO   THE  SACRED  HE  ART 

OF  JESUS.    By  S.  Franco,  S.  J.    Cloth,  81 ;  cl.  gt.  8i;50. 

This  is  the  Seconcl  and  much  Improved  Edition  of  an  excellent  and 
complete  treatise  on  the  subject ;  at  once  doctrinal  and  practical,  and 
full  of  unction.    Uniform  with  "  Paradise  of  God,"  Ac. 

THE  APOSTLESHIP   OF  PRAYER.    By 

Rev.  H.  Uamikre,  S.  J.    From  the  Freucli.    Cloth,  81.50. 

This  is  a  Work  of  unusual  merit,  on  the  excellence  and  power  of 
prayer;  it  gives  a  very  full  and  clear  explanation  of  the  Apostloship, 
and  shows  how  it  can  be  practically  iutroduced  and  carried  on  in 
Parishes,  Communities,  Seminaries,  Colleges,  Ac. 

THE  3IANUAL  OF  THE  APOSTLESHIP 

OF  I'JtAYEJi.    An  abridgment  of  the  above.    35  cents. 
Tlte  ApostlesJtip  of  Frnyer   Association.    Explanation  and 

Practical  Instruction  by  Fr.  Ramikre,  S.  J.    Per  100,  8;;  net. 
Tickets  of  Admission  to  the  Apostleship  of  l^rayer.     Per 

100,  50  cts. ;  in  lots  of  500,  81.50 ;  1000,  82.50  net. 
The  Messenger  of  the  Sacred  Ifeart  of  Jesus.    A  Bulletin  of 
the  Apostleship  of  Prayer,  is  published  Monthly  for  the  Proprie- 
tors.    Subscription  price,  82  per  aunum,  in  advance. 

Rosary  of  the  Ajiostles/tij),  changed  monthly.    Price,  per  dozen. 
45  ct* ;  per  100,  83  net. 

Scuptdar  J'rints  of  the  Sacred  Heart.    Per  100,  30  cents  net. 
Murphy  Jt  Co.,  I'ublishers  and  Sookscllera,  Saltinior: 


MURPHY  &L  GO'S  New  and  Recent  Publications. 

TSE  HAPPINESS   OF  HEAVEN, 

By  a  Father  of  the  Society  of  Jestis. 

Fifth  Revised  Edition,  cap  80.  tinted  paper,  $1 ;  cloth,  gill,  81.50. 
4®"  The  sale  of  nearly  10,000  copies  in  two  years,  and  the  constantly 
Increasing  demand,  the  praises  bestowed  by  the  Press  —  both  Catholic 
and  non-Catholic  —  are  gratifying  evidences  of  the  real  merits  of  this 
charming  volume. 

That  the  reader  may  judge  of  the  character  of  this  charming  vol- 
ume, we  submit  the  Table  of  Contents: 

1.  The  Beatific  Vision.  —  2.  In  the  Beatific  Vision,  "  We  shall  be  like 
Him,  because  we  shall  see  Ilim  as  He  is."  — 3.  In  the  Beatific  Vision, 
our  Intellect  is  glorified,  and  our  Thirst  for  Knowledge  completely 
gratified.  —  4.  In  the  Beatific  Vision,  our  Will  is  also  to  be  glorified, 
and  tlien  we  shall  be  hajipy  in  loving  and  being  loved. —  5.  The  Beauty 
and  Glory  of  the  Risen  Body.  —  6.  The  .Sjjirituality  of  the  Risen  Body. 

—  7.  The  Impassibility  and  Immortality  of  the  Risen  Body.  —  8.  Sev- 
eral Errois  to  be  avoided  in  our  Meditations  on  Heaven. —  9.  The  Life 
of  the  Blessed  in  Heaven. —  10.  Pleasures  of  tlie  Glorified  Senses. — 
11.  Social  joys  of  Heaven. —  12.  Will  the  knowledge  that  some  of  onr 
own  are  lost,  nuir  our  happiness  in  Heaven  ?  — 13.  The  Light  of  Glory. 

—  14.  Degrees  of  Hapi'iness  in  Heaven.  — 15.  Degrees  of  Enjoyment 
through  the  Glorified  Senses.  — 16.  The  Glory  of  Jesus  and  Mary. — 
17.  The  Glory  of  the  Martyrs. —  18.  The  Glory  of  the  Doctors  and 
Confessors.  — 19.  The  Glory  of  Virgins  and  Religious.  —  20.  tilory  of 
Penitents  and  Pious  People.  —  21.  Eternity  of  Heaven's  Happiness. 

Extracts  rroin  Notices  of  tlio  Press- 

"This  volume  will  pli\ise  the  pious  and  the  learned.  It  will  satisfy, 
at  the  same  time,  tlie  e.xactions  of  literary  critics  and  the  wishes  ot 
the  most  fastidious  theologians;  the  former  by  its  accurate  and  llow- 
iiig  stylo,  and  the  latter  by  the  solidity  of  its  theological  foundations 

—  continually  underlying  the  treatise,  tliougli  rarely  set  forward. 
This  is  one  of  the  volumes  that  can  be  unqualifiedly  commended." 

N.  y.  Frcfinan^s  Journal. 

"  It  draws  out,  in  successive  chapters,  what  can  be  known  about  the 
Beatific  Vision,  tlie  perfection  of  the  intellect  and  will,  the  properties 
of  glorified  bodies,  and  social  joys  of  heaven.  The  book  deserves  all 
praise."  London  Monlhhj. 

"Many  will,  perhaps,  be  astoni.shcd  to  learn  that  the  happiness  of 
the  Saints  does  not  consist  in  being  eternally  on  their  knees  before 
the  throne  of  God,  and  in  profound  adoration  of  the  Divine  JIajesty, 
or  in  being  so  overpowered  by  the  vision  of  (lod  as  to  be  changed  into 
motionless  statues  for  eternity.  This  is  the  whole  idea  of  heaven  in 
many  a  pious  mind.  The  author  does  away  with  all  these  incorrect 
and  vague  notions  which  tioat  in  the  popular  mind.  He  maintains 
that  the  sight  of  God,  far  from  interfering  with  the  activities  of  our 
nature,  perfects  every  one  of  them,  and  that  all,  without  excejition, 
have  suitable  or  appropriate  objects  to  act  upon,  and  that  it  is,  more- 
over, precisely  in  such  action  that  the  happiness  of  heaven  consists." 

Philadeljihia  Catholic  Standur-d, 

Sturp/iy  S;  Co..  Piibli.thcr.i  niid  liook-iellefs,  Jifiltitnore. 


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